Anything But Elementary
by xox-hattii-xox
Summary: Danger is Sherlock's life, but this game of Moriarty's pushes it beyond anything else Sherlock and John have ever known. When the game is this deadly, there can only be one winner. And when you're playing for your life, you need something to live for.
1. Dysfunctional Domestic Bliss

Authors Note: Okay, this may seem rambly, but it is quite important that you read this. It'll explain a lot; Right. Ever since watching Sherlock – And screaming at the T.V because of that damn cliffhanger – I've been unable to move on. Literally. So, I had to immediately start typing. This is the result. It is, ashamedly, a re-write of The Great Game. Because I will never be able to come up with anything that could follow on from that cliffhanger, I had to go back and write another Moriarty plot line. This is not me claiming that I'm better than the _amazing_ writers of Sherlock, this is me attempting to find some closure in my mind by feeding the Obsessive Sherlock Fan in my brain. So, some of it is close to what happened in the series. And it starts fairly similar, but it changes monumentally after a while.

Also, it is eventual JohnSherlock slash – if you don't like it then don't read it.

Hope you enjoy.

Chapter One.

Dysfunctional Domestic Bliss.

"I do wish you'd order something," Doctor John Watson spoke over a steaming mug of coffee and a half-eaten muffin to his silent companion. "I probably look strange, drinking all alone,"

"Don't worry," Sherlock Holmes replied, a slight note of quiet humour lurking beneath the derision of his tone. "No-one's watching you,"

"You'd know," John said through a wry smile as he took a bite of his muffin.

A minuscule quirk of the lips into a small smirk was his roommate's immediate response. "Oh, don't say that," Sherlock responded, the contagious smirk steadily growing across his pale cheeks. "You make me sound _perverted_,"

Whatever cuttingly sarcastic wit that John had ready, died on his lips as he truly looked over his companion for the first time since they'd left Baker Street that afternoon. "Is...is that _my _coat?"

Sherlock stopped and looked down at the deep blue jacket buttoned across his chest that, while warm, was decidedly not his. "Yes, you don't mind do you?" Although judging by the wide smirk still ready on his face, the answer wouldn't bother the man either way.

"Why _exactly_ are you wearing it?"

"Mine's still at the dry-cleaners," Sherlock told him with all of the devastation of a small child denied his favourite toy.

"Don't you have a spare?" John asked, dabbing at the moustache of foam his coffee had created.

Sherlock looked at him with a look in his eyes that was now so familiar to John that he just took it in stride; a look that said _'Look at you, so vacant. Do you not understand?'_. Sighing, Sherlock answered; "John, if I had a spare, would I be wearing your coat?" The consulting detective rolled his eyes at the ex-soldier, seeming to John to be reveling in his constant superiority.

"It's hard to know with you," John retorted quietly, breaking off some of his muffin and popping it into his mouth, silently adding 'Theft' to the growing list of his roommates eccentricities.

Treating John's comment with all the dignity he felt it deserved, Sherlock retreated into silence as John finished his coffee and the pair left the hustle and bustle of the loud, come-one-come-all London coffee shop, heading into the crowded streets outside.

Maybe it was the fact that he had been in the line of war and his instincts were so finely tuned that _everything _seemed out to get him, or maybe it was just that, after a few weeks with Sherlock and his thrilling cases, he could see London for the battlefield it was, but John felt the flesh on the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably. The terrifying feeling of eyes watching his every movement, but when he turned he could see no-one standing out.

Briefly, he considered asking Sherlock if his suspicions were correct, but he adamantly refused to feed the man's already extensive ego. So, he kept his thoughts to himself and simply walked in silence, occasionally checking over his shoulder as they moved through the crowds.

"You see him too?" Sherlock asked suddenly, a note of undisguised surprise present in his calculated voice.

"...Sorry?" John asked, frowning in confusion and trying to follow Sherlock's sudden train of thought.

"Oh, apparently not," A look of mild disappointment crossed the detective's face, before he continued. "A few metres behind us, to the left, man in a dark brown suit, purple tie, briefcase. He's been following us for the past few blocks,"

"Are you sure?" John immediately twisted his neck around to look for their alleged pursuer.

"Don't look," Sherlock hissed, yanking John's forearm with a vice-like grip. "I don't want my brother to know that I know,"

"Wait, your brother? Mycroft's doing this, how do you know?"

"Obvious," The tone of muted arrogance in Sherlock's voice made John feel as though he'd just drooled onto his shirt. Then again, Sherlock made everyone feel like that, so he felt slightly better. "They've recently upped my watch status,"

"Watch status?"

"Must you continue to repeat everything I say? Yes, watch status. Mycroft is the government, secret service and British surveillance rolled into one man. I wouldn't be surprised is every CCTV camera within two blocks is pointed at us right now," As if to illustrate his point, Sherlock flicked his keen eyes to the top of a nearby department store. John followed his gaze and, indeed, saw the surveillance camera on the roof swiveling to their direction.

"You don't seem all that concerned," John noted.

Sherlock shrugged, hailing a cab with a leather-gloved hand. "It's nothing to worry about. More irritating than any cause for concern," He opened the door of the taxi that pulled up at their side and jumped in.

"Right, nothing to worry about," John muttered to himself as he climbed in after his roommate. "Your brother's using spies and CCTV to have you tailed, but nothing to worry about!" The sarcastically drenched words whirled through the air as he closed the taxi door.

"Glad you agree," Sherlock's lips twitched in amusement as he chose to ignore the sarcasm. John huffed at the response, but let the subject be.

This was the way it was with Sherlock Holmes; there was never a sense of normalcy, and he left no room for the ordinary in his life. Ever since he'd met Sherlock, John felt as though his whole world had fallen apart and then stitched back together by some mad seamstress. He'd been held at gunpoint, kidnapped, held hostage, been involved in crimes scenes, had his laptop hacked into, been followed, accused of being someone he wasn't, broken into apartments, and had had his own apartment torn apart in a drugs bust.

Suffice to say, it wasn't the life John had ever planned for himself. It was mad, chaotic, dangerous and sometimes just downright terrifying. But he loved every senseless second of it!

He blinked once, making his eyes refocus, as the sound of Sherlock directing the taxi-driver to 221 Baker Street yanked himself out of his contemplative thoughts. Following the train of thought he'd been chasing, he turned to study his companion who was also lost in silent thought.

The wind that blustered through a gap in the window tugged at his mop of curly hair, so dark against his pale skin that John sometimes felt like he were looking at a black and white photo of the man. Tresses of hair brushed across eyes that were always so alive – cool, collected and utterly powerful.

John could almost see the cogs in his mind turning furiously, thousands of ideas and observations firing through his brain at once, collecting, sorting and re-firing at incredible speeds. This was what most frightened him about the man he considered to be the closest thing he had to a friend; that zealous intelligence and razor-sharp calculation. Sherlock saw everything, saw him, without anyone's knowledge until it was too late to stop him.

"Either you have more questions, or my hair just looks _fascinating _today," Sherlock's deep voice, coupled with a wry smile, was laced with a thinly veiled humour. "Which is it?"

Choosing to take the suddenly open opportunity, a rare opportunity at that, John replied, "Why does your brother have you watched?"

Arching an eyebrow, Sherlock turned to him. "Why does anyone watch anything? He's curious,"

"Curious about you, or curious about what you're doing?"

"Does it have to be one or the other?"

"Do you have to always answer my question with a question?"

One of Sherlock's cheeks creased as he gave John a crooked smile. "Yes,"

John smothered a grin, and continued his questioning. "He told me he was _concerned_ about you. Does he have any reason to be concerned?"

With Sherlock it was sometimes difficult to read emotions in his face. Anger was a flash in the eyes and the barest tightening of the lips. Worry was the slightest gathering of the eyebrows, and happiness was the faintest ghost of a lopsided smile. But Sherlock's quiet, barely-there chuckle showed John that something he had said had amused the detective.

"Something funny?"

"Yes. You,"

"_Me?_"

Sherlock nodded once, the smile growing infinitesimally on his lips. "I know for a fact that if you asked anyone else who knows me, they'd be able to tell you at least seven reasons to be 'concerned' about me,"

"My apologies, I'll try to be more judgmental next time," The remark was barbed, clipped at the end.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Come on, John, I've been alienating people since I was three years old. My brother, not surprisingly, was one of those people. As soon as he tasted power, he put it to use by watching me. Giving him some control over my life,"

"You're sure it's not just, friendly sibling concern?" John asked, but didn't hold out much hope. By the one case of interaction he had seen between the two brothers, it didn't appear like there was much love lost on either end.

Sherlock just looked at him, face impassive, knowing that John already knew how stupid a question it had been. "No. But, the curious thing is, why has he increased my status? I've done nothing out of the ordinary, brought no more attention to myself than usual, why-" He cut off his monologue of thoughts mid-word, and cocked his head slightly. "Oh,"

"Oh? What's 'Oh'?" John frowned uncomfortably as Sherlock's gaze landed on him. The unwavering stare made him feel as though his skin were transparent and Sherlock could see everything about him; heart thumping, lungs moving, spine tingling as he saw the gears ticking in Sherlock's eyes.

"It's you," Sherlock told him, his eyes still transfixed on John like a cobra keeping a mouse in it's hypnotic gaze. Then he blinked, and the spell broke. "It's you, John, you're the different thing."

"Me? But why would he be interested in me. I thought he just wanted a spy," John felt like he was back in primary school, trying to play with the older kids – he just couldn't quite keep up.

Sherlock shook his head. "Well, he did. Until he kidnapped you, that is. When you refused – Still stupid of you, by the way – he must have gotten suspicious,"

"Suspicious? Why would he be suspicious?"

"I don't have friends," Sherlock shrugged, as though the answer were obvious. Which, it actually was.

John often found it quite tragic how little Sherlock seemed to care about his own reclusive lifestyle. Sherlock was a genius and, to him, that made everyone else an idiot and therefore not worth precious his time nor interesting enough to quench his almost eternal boredom.

For some reason unknown to the two, this seemed to signal the end of their conversation and the two men remained in comfortable silence as they finished their journey, paid, and bounded up the steps into their apartment.

As soon as they entered the main room, Sherlock's demeanor shifted. The quietly playful exterior from the outside world faded away into a more businesslike and professional countenance, as he crossed the room to the sofa. In front of the sofa, lay the coffee table, and upon the table sat numerous files, sheets, maps, books, photographs. They littered the false wood, the space taken upon but for one lonely mug of cold tea that sat within grabbing distance of Sherlock's arm. The air around the detective, as he picked up the piece of paper he'd been studying before they'd left, appeared to hum with silence, interrupted only by the quiet _tsk_ing noise that Sherlock seemed quite unaware he was even making.

John, recognizing the unwritten routine, moved through to the kitchen and flicked the kettle on, settling himself against the small and only section of the work-surface that was actually clean.

The kettle soon clicked, and he mixed up two teas, careful not to splash any on himself. He grabbed himself a chocolate biscuit - Sherlock despised the things - and carried the two mugs through to the living room setting one down for Sherlock and one for himself on the arms of the chair across the room. Sherlock managed a quiet noise that John assumed was a thanks, but kept his gaze on his work, his violin in his hands.

It was at moments like these, that John seriously considered investing in an Mp3 Player of some description. Depending on his mood, Sherlock's musical tastes changed. In times such as these, he merely plucked on the strings in, admittedly, nice and simple tunes and scales. In times when he was aggravated, he picked up his bow and repeated the same musical phrase again, and again, and again, until John had to take it upon himself to throw hard objects in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock had talent, considerable talent, though he'd never told John how he'd learned the instrument. But John doubted that he'd ever be patient enough to listen to a teacher. Despite Sherlock's origin of his talent, he'd awoken John at 2a.m too many times to look forward to the sounds of bow on string. Not always – sometimes he'd been awoken by the sound, and fought against his drooping eyelids so that he could listen to the haunting sounds that made him feel like a sailor's wife staring at a storm. However, Sherlock occasionally took it upon himself to echo his frustration in screeching noises reminiscent of a strangled cat.

Consequently, John had grown wary of the violin very quickly.

However, Sherlock had, for reasons unknown to John, not begun to play yet. He simply held the instrument, like a child clutching a teddy bear or a security blanket, as he stared at the sheets adorned with notations and underlines with a pensive scowl on his young face.

Sherlock let his eyes rove across every typed letter, every blue map line, every highlighted section, every serial number or code, his mind cataloging everyone in order of importance, relevance and helpfulness. And every fact or piece of data, became a part of a jigsaw within his mind, the jigsaw spelling out one word; Moriarty.

The illusive, unknown and obviously powerful Moriarty. The man who'd sponsored a dying cabbie to murder his customers. The man whose name, upon re-checking, had been found dotted surreptitiously across many of the police's files.

The need for knowledge, for explanation, for answers, swelled up inside his chest like an unbreakable balloon whenever his mind wandered back to the the taxi driver's dying word. Who was this man, this Moriarty? It was maddening, driving him crazy with every second that went by without knowing the identity of the man. He had an obsession, he knew, but he _thrived_ off of it. The pursuit of knowledge, especially one so challenging, was what he lived for.

"This really bothers you, doesn't it?" The one man who managed to inject reality and humanity into his life spoke, making Sherlock raise his head to stare questioningly at the doctor across the room from him. "That you don't know who he is?"

"It doesn't bother me," He lied swiftly, taking his first gulp from the cooling cup of tea.

"Yeah it does," John contradicted, as a smug smile worked it's way onto his lips. "It bothers you that he managed to pull it off, control that man and possibly others, without anyone knowing who his is," The words, though correct, irritated Sherlock slightly. But he hid his grimace behind his mug. "And I think I've worked it out,"

"Worked out what?" He raised his eyebrows slightly, looking the exact epitome of boredom.

"Why it annoys you,"

"_Do tell_," The sarcasm almost dripped from his pink tongue as he waited.

"I think it's a condition – a complex," John started, looking more and more pleased with himself with each word. "You know how some doctors get the Messiah Complex – they have to save the world? Well, I think you've got the Rubik's Complex; you have to solve the puzzle,"

"Fascinating deduction," Sherlock drawled, setting the violin under his chin and picking up his bow. "Completely wrong on all counts, but fascinating,"

"I'm not wrong," John said stubbornly, confident in his words. A raised eyebrow was Sherlock's only response.

They fell into relative silence, Sherlock returning to his work with all the dignity of a bird with it's feathers ruffled, while John absentmindedly sipped his tea, not thinking about anything in particular just content to let his thoughts wander.

The gentle twanging of the violin strings resounded through the room as Sherlock slumped back into the leather sofa and stared at the window. As John watched, Sherlock abruptly ceased all movement and slowly set the instrument to one side, holding it loosely by it's neck, keeping his gaze on the window. "There's someone outside, someone watching us,"

"Yes, Mycroft's man. I thought we'd..._you'd_ established that," John lifted his eyebrows and looked over the top of his tea in confusion at the detective.

"Someone else. Mycroft's man has left. _No_, this is someone new."

John glanced out the window. He had no idea how Sherlock knew this seeing as how, from the other man's position, there was no way to see into the street. But, John had long since given up trying to deduce how Sherlock deduced things, he just accepted Sherlock's word as fact – it was easier that way.

"Someone new?" He asked quietly, as though his words could carry out through Baker Street walls and through the London night air.

"Yes," They were silent for a very long moment as they both stared in the direction of the window; John because he felt no inclination to move his sight, Sherlock as if he were listening to something no-one else could hear. Then, he shook himself, as though waking from a deep sleep and raised his violin.

The haunting melody floated through the air as Sherlock sat, cocooned in thoughts shooting at speeds too fast for John to ever comprehend, and played without consciously recognising any of the notes he played.

Even though he knew that the thought of an unknown man watching their house should unsettle him into a night of unrest, the sound of Sherlock's playing soon had John falling back into the comforting presence of unconsciousness.


	2. The Lives We Lead

Authors Note: Thankyou so much to everyone has reviewed, added this to story alerts, favourited it, or just taken the time to read it. I'll be updating every Sunday, so I'm hoping that the updates will be pretty regular. Anyway, here's chapter two - quick explanation about Sarah. I _tried_ to write her in, but I can't seem to write her realistically. Sorry if you are a Sarah Fan.

Chapter Two.

The Lives We Lead.

Each day so far since their run-in with the Black Lotus, John had gotten used to waking to Sherlock's screeching on the violin, his shouting at some inanimate object he couldn't get to work, or simply sullen silences that lasted for hours. So, when he awoke in his chair the next morning with an awful crick in his neck and saw the other man missing from the sofa, he believed that it was a perfectly acceptable response to immediately be cautious.

He stood, rolling his neck so his vertebrae popped sickeningly, and looked around the apparently empty flat. "Sherlock?"

No reply.

Shrugging to himself, he went to make himself a cup of tea. He considered getting a bowl of cereal but after deciding that the milk in his tea was _definitely _off, he thought better of it, and added 'Milk' to the grocery list that was getting far too cramped with both his small neat font and Sherlock's messy parody of writing. He really needed to go shopping sometime soon.

Slouching through to his bedroom, his movements made lethargic by the cloud of sleep still hovering over his head, he resisted the temptation of the comfy-looking bed and instead got dressed in simple jeans and sweater.

The sound of a door slamming shut and quick footsteps on stairs reached his ears as he pulled his head through the neck of his jumper. He heard the oddly suspicious jangling of glass echo through the flat, and hurriedly headed back into the kitchen, the floor cold on his bare feet.

Luckily, unlike previous experiences, Sherlock wasn't pottering happily around the kitchen table with scientific equipment and mumbling words with too many syllables. Rather, he was seated, reading a newspaper with a furrow in his brow.

"Anything good?" John asked, glancing over Sherlock's shoulder at the print as he passed.

"No...The city is being _unbelievably _dull," He flipped to the obituaries. "...No suspicious deaths, no disappearances, nothing!"

"Shame," John told him, the sympathy in his voice due more to sarcasm than actual understanding. "Can I have the Sports?"

"In a minute," Sherlock waved a hand dismissively at him.

"Come on, you're not going to read it,"

Sighing through his nose, Sherlock flipped to the back, handed him the Sports Section, and returned to his perusal of the paper. John murmured a thanks and set about finding himself some form of breakfast from their dwindling supplies.

"Wait a second. You went to the shops and didn't think to get the groceries?" John asked, his eyes falling on the crumpled up carrier bag on the table that he suspected didn't contain the contents of the grocery list.

"Busy," Was the response.

"Busy? You were _at _the shops,"

Setting down the paper, Sherlock turned to him. "I was trying to figure out whether the person outside last night was just watching the house or actively following me,"

"Oh." He hesitated. "And your findings...?"

"Definitely following me,"

John nodded, munching on his heavily buttered toast and adding 'Bread' to the list aswell. "...But you were _still _at the shops!"

"Priorities, John," Sherlock chastised, rolling his eyes.

"Fine, I'll go later,"

"Make sure you pick up sugar. I told Mrs Hudson I'd get some for her,"

Exhaling an disbelieving breath, John opened the Sports Section. "Unbelievable," He skimmed across the page, passing over golf, and settled back against the counter.

He'd barely managed to finish the first paragraph when a loud thumping knock on the main door made itself known. "You expecting anyone?"

The look Sherlock sent him was worth it's weight in words. "No. You?"

"Yeah, because I have such a swinging social life. Sarah won't even talk to me anymore,"

"You don't know anyone else?"

"What can I say? You've made me your fellow hermit," John called over his shoulder as he left the room and headed down the stairs. Mrs Hudson wasn't going to answer the door, not since John had advised her to rest with a mild case of the flu.

"I am _not _a hermit," Came the insulted reply.

John rolled his eyes and opened the door, revealing the impromptu visitor to be a young man.

He was a slender man, with an air of stiffness in his stance that only came from a wealthy upbringing. His clothes seemed too small for him, clinging almost painfully to his every corner, and one shoulder was ever so slightly elevated above the other. He was of average height, an inch or so taller than John, and his hair was a soft brown colour, thinning on the top of his head. All in all, the man was quite unremarkable. He looked as though you'd forget him if you turned away for only a second.

"Dr John Watson?" Even his voice was unremarkable.

John blinked, trying to place the strange accent of the man. Or rather, lack thereof. His voice just seemed to blend into the background. "Yes, can I help you?"

In a blur of movement and a twisted smile, John was suddenly staring down the barrel of a gun resting before his nose. His heart hammered in his chest, shock and fear fighting for dominance as the prominent emotion. "I suggest you remain quiet, Dr Watson. Do you understand me?"

John nodded, his eyes hurting as he tried to keep both on the black circle that was housing a bullet ready to break through his skull. Adrenaline bubbled up in his veins, the likes of which he'd become used to from his time in Afghanistan, and Baker Street.

"Good. I think we're gonna get along fine," Gesturing with the gun, the man pointed to the stairs. "I want you to turn around, head upstairs, and remain silent. Can you do that for me?"

Another nod.

"Great. Lead the way, doctor,"

Heart beating into overtime, John slowly turned around and placed his foot on the stairs.

"Who is it, John?" Sherlock's lazy, unburdened voice called from the still open door to their flat.

"Umm..." John hesitated as he reached the landing. The gun pressed harder against his temple, a wave of nausea rolled through his stomach, and he remained silent. He bit his lip, hating himself for not calling out a warning of some description.

"John?" Sherlock asked again, an edge of unfamiliar confusion in his voice.

The weapon still clapped to John's head, the anonymous man pressed John into the flat ahead of him and into the kitchen.

"Good Morning," The armed man spoke quietly, amicably even, but the sound was enough to make Sherlock look up from his newspaper.

John watched the consulting detective's penetrating eyes flash to the man's face, his body, his feet, the gun and, finally, onto John's face. Sherlock stood from his chair, their eyes meeting for a heated second, and John read the sudden determination in his gaze.

"And you are...?" Sherlock's voice was languid, drawing out the final word in false indifference. But John saw the other man's eyes immediately begin to catalogue everything about their 'visitor'.

"Come now, Sherlock," The man spoke in monotone, moving from his position behind John to stand at his side instead, the gun now aimed at his temple. "You must have been expecting a visit sooner or later,"

Due to the man's new position, John caught sight of something that he hadn't noticed before, something he knew Sherlock wouldn't have missed; a Bluetooth headset clipped around the man's left ear. Someone was speaking to their visitor.

A flicker passed through Sherlock's eyes, and John thought he caught a glimpse of that..that thing, that genius, that made Sherlock's mind work the way it did. "_Moriarty_," He breathed, his eyes unfocused. Then he snapped back. "Why not visit me in person?"

"Isn't this more exciting?" It was strange, John thought, but even in the monotonous voice he thought he could hear amusement in the words. "I've been watching you, Sherlock,"

"Oh?" Sherlock slid his hands deeply into his trouser pockets, without even a glimmer of worry on his face, though his eyes continued to flick between John's face, the gun, and the headset.

"And you are fascinating. Really, you are. A man of intelligence equal only to me, I believe,"

"That would mean more to me, if you weren't hiding behind a thug with a gun," John hoped he was the only one who noticed the tightening of his roommate's spine as their visitor pressed the gun even tighter to his temple at Sherlock's words.

"Don't be rude, Sherlock," It was almost admonishing, even in the strict drone the gun-man insisted on speaking in, like a parent scolding a small child for not minding their manners. "But I hope that I can ask you a very simple thing, and you'll be intelligent enough to cooperate,"

"Do go on,"

"Back off,"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You heard me," The gun against John's temple clicked, the sound making John's breathing quicken though he'd be damned if he showed it. Sherlock leant forward slightly without thinking, as if making a move to stop him, but remained where he was, his face dark.

"Back," The man dragged the tip of the gun across John's cheek, down his neck, and pressed the metal into the scarred and tangled mess of his shoulder where the fatal bullet from Afghanistan had hit. John felt his heart skip into triple time and sweat bead across his forehead. A finger slid to the trigger...

And the man stepped back, holding his gun aloft as he turned it on Sherlock. "_Off_,"

John bent at the waist as the gun-man sprinted from the room, bracing himself against his knees and trying to catch his breath. The door downstairs banged shut, leaving the apartment in near silence but for John's ragged breathing.

"Oh, God," He wheezed, straightening up and breathing deeply through his nose. "Christ...How do you manage to make an arch enemy before noon?" He accused the detective, the snipe in his voice made less effective by his gasping for air.

"Oh, reminds me," Sherlock said as he grasped John roughly by the shoulders and checked his face for any cuts or bruises, a faint expression of concern in his piercing eyes. "It's time for lunch," He spared John a winning smile, before returning to his perusal.

"Lunch?" John spluttered almost incoherently as Sherlock continued to peer at him as though he were a particularly interesting specimen in a jar. "How can you think of lunch after something like that?"

"Because," Sherlock drew out the word as he finally released John and reached for his coat. "_That_ brings my appetite back,"

* * *

"Morning, dearies," The kind-faced woman in the nearby cafe greeted them as they approached the glass counter. "Anything I can get for you?"

"Ham sandwich, orange juice, and a muffin, please," John asked after running his eyes over the selection of food, rummaging around in his pocket and fishing out a screwed up five pound note and some coins.

"Seven fifty, deary," She smiled at him, taking the money and handing him a napkin alongside his lunch. "And for you?" She turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock placed a few coins on the counter absentmindedly, thoughts not known to John obviously running through his mind. "Just a cheese sandwich, please," He said, and the lady handed him a sandwich.

They sat down at one of the empty tables at the back, John feeling a bit too paranoid about the apparently _numerous_ people following them to sit anywhere remotely near a window.

"Hungry much?" Sherlock asked as John quickly wolfed down his sandwich, a smidgen of good-natured disgust quirking his eyebrow.

John looked up from unwrapping his muffin, brushing away crumbs from his sweater with his free hand. "I was held at gunpoint. I'm entitled to my muffin," He defended himself.

"Whatever you say," Sherlock smirked, taking a single bite of his own lunch and falling back into a silence that John knew was loaded with ideas, thoughts and theories all resonating around his brain at impressive speeds.

John had only known Sherlock for a short time, but he'd been in enough dangerous situations because of the man to have at least a basic understanding of how the detective worked in these types of things. Sherlock wasn't the type of man to be stopped by an armed threat. He was the type of man who, when threatened as such, grew all the more interested.

"So, what do you know about Moriarty then?" John asked, pausing to take a slurp of his orange juice.

With the faintest ghost of a smile on the corner of his mouth, Sherlock looked at him in interest. "But I'm supposed to stop," He stated, watching his roommate's face with a mix of curiosity and expectation.

"And you won't," John said, a wry smile breaking free. "If you did, I'd expect to see the four horsemen, a reign of fire, and the end of days,"

Sherlock's mouth twisted upwards. "Well, what's life without curiosity?" He set his half-eaten sandwich to one side and fixed an intent stare to John's face. "He's a professor, intelligent and from a good education. His school records were...difficult to procure, but they're impressive. He's brilliant, infinitely clever, with a phenomenal mathematical ability. He had a great career ahead of him and, on the surface, he appeared to follow it through by becoming a professor."

The young detective had completely forgotten his lunch by now, the speed of his words increasing the more excited he got. "But, his father was involved in a lot of criminal activities, and the trait seems to be hereditary. Although the student appears to have become the master - Moriarty has far surpassed his father in these matters. Moriarty's name is linked, however faintly, to numerous police files. He's dotted about the place, a benefactor, a leader, a...a _sponsor_. He's behind almost half of all that's criminal and nearly all that is undetected in the city. But the information is so difficult to find - he's the gap in the data - so I've barely found anything of _true _importance, just his background. Nothing about there here or now, not really..." He trailed off, his slender fingers tracing invisible patterns across the tabletop and an expression of slight annoyance on his face.

"Wow," John blinked, setting aside his orange juice.

"You're thinking out loud again," Sherlock noted lazily.

"Oh...Sorry," He shook his head rapidly. "But, _wow,_"

His roommate rolled his eyes, but a smile spread across his lips in an odd mixture of amusement and self-satisfaction.

It was most enjoyable, Sherlock mused silently as they left the cafe five minutes later, to have someone so amazed by something that came so naturally to him. So enjoyable, in fact, that it placed him in a mood to constantly demonstrate his genius.

Although, he did have to admit, it _was _a mood in which he frequently found himself.


	3. I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

Authors Note: Again, thankyou to all of you amazing people reviewing, alerting and favouriting my stories. Okay, very little happens in this chapter. Unfortunately as it turns out, a story needs a plot and not just JohnSherlock interaction (Damn) So, the plot _does_ come into play at the end of this. Oh! And with the last line, I just couldn't resist. But for now, enjoy Chapter Three.

Chapter Three.

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead.

Early morning light filtered through the dusty windows of the flat, casting an opaque yellow-gray tint over the room. A man lay stretched out over the sofa, resting comfortably on his back, his bare feet hanging over the arm. One long-fingered hand held a case file upon his chest, the other hand twisting a cheap newsagents Biro, the end slightly chewed. His intense blue eyes darted back and forth, following the trail of words across the pages.

All in all, Sherlock presented a state of neatness on the surface with a sense of general dishevelment underneath. His shirt was pressed and tidy, but the sleeves were rolled haphazardly back over his forearms, and his black suit trousers were coupled mis-matched socks.

A cup of tea sat steaming on the floor, he reached down and picked it up without pausing in his reading.

"Still working on that, I see." John leaned against the doorframe leading into the kitchen. He spooned some cereal from the plastic bowl he held in his hand and munched on it quietly.

Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow at him over the edge of his papers

"Don't you ever sleep?" John asked as he sprawled himself down in the chair on the other side of the room. "Or do you just live off of Earl Grey?"

"Good morning to you, too, John" He flipped over a page and circled a phrase with his pen, a soft V creasing his forehead.

John saluted with the spoon, an action which Sherlock took to be John's own strange version of a 'Good morning', and flicked on the television. A perky blonde woman smiled at them from in front of a large map of Britain and cheerily informed them that it would be raining today.

"Sherlock?" He looked up at the sound of his name, decidedly _not_ in John's voice, and caught sight of Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway, a blanket around her shoulders, and holding a large box.

"Mrs Hudson, you have the flu. You should be in bed," John got up and took the box from the old woman, a chiding expression on his face.

"I was, Dear," She patted his cheek, sniffling slightly as she did so. "But there was someone at the door and no-one seemed to be getting it – do you have a tissue?"

Nodding, John dropped the heavy box onto Sherlock's chest, making the detective groan at the sudden weight, and headed into the kitchen.

Glaring at the retreating back of John, Sherlock pushed the box onto the coffee table and pawed through the paperwork inside. "Oh, _excellent!_ Thankyou, Mrs Hudson," He spared her a smile before pulling out another folder of police-files.

"More Moriarty stuff?" John asked as he handed Mrs Hudson a tissue. "Now, get back into bed, Mrs Hudson," Their landlady tutted indulgently, but left the flat with promises to do as he said.

"Yes, Lestrade said he'd bring over more files," Sherlock said, already engrossed in another set of papers. "He owed me a favour after that last case,"

"The stolen ring?"

"Correct,"

"How'd that go, by the way?"

"Eurgh, dull,"

John's chuckles faded out as he fell back into the files.

Sherlock knew he'd set himself a punishing lifestyle, cramming every waking hour – and most of his sleeping ones - with Moriarty. He was tracking down every scrap of information about the man, no matter how trifling or innocuous, and was filing away every single piece of data in his brain. It kept his attention focused and his mind engaged, and he _loved _it.

There was nothing he loved more than an illusive fact.

Reclining back into his original position, Sherlock began ferreting through the files, his Biro occasionally making an appearance when an interesting phrase or so jumped out at him.

_...Working for unnamed leader. Suspect refused to give information..._

_...Part of a criminal ring. Leader thus far unnamed..._

_...Suspect admitted to working for professor. Name not known. Suspect claims not to know professor's name..._

_...Suspect received regular deposits in bank account from unknown benefactor..._

"Sherlock, what do you want to eat?" John's voice broke into the haze.

"What?"

"Chinese or Pizza?"

He blinked once in confusion and slid his eyes to the window. The morning light he'd last clamped eyes on had faded through the spectrum to become a deep velvety blue. He'd spent the entire day sprawled across the sofa. "Oh, um...doesn't matter. You choose," He shrugged, setting the file to one side and rotating his neck until it cracked, trying to realign his inner-clock.

Giving him a knowing look that showed Sherlock that he knew exactly what had confused the detective, John smirked and began dialing.

Sherlock smiled. He hadn't lived with many people in his life, but John was the only one who had taken in his eccentricities – Such as breezing past whole days – and didn't think him a freak for it. In fact, John may have been the only person in the world who'd taken Sherlock's idiosyncrasies in stride, not dismissing them as weird. He'd been awed by Sherlock's skills of deduction and that had peaked the taller man's interest in him.

John was fast becoming the closest thing to a friend Sherlock had ever had.

Scrubbing his slender hands through his hair, Sherlock pressed his head back into the leather of the arm of the sofa and sighed loudly. He rubbed a hand over his face and untucked his shirt, trying to get even more comfortable.

"Sherlock, if you're going to undress – do it in your bedroom," John quipped, sending him a wicked grin from the kitchen before his eyes widened comically. "Oh, hi, I'd like to order a pizza,"

Sherlock chuckled under his breath as he returned to their work, paying mind to not let his thoughts wander so drastically again. At some point during his study, a plate full of pizza slices was placed by his side. He gave a mumbled thanks, but soon returned to his papers. The next hour passed in relative silence with thankfully no interruptions. Placing his Biro down, Sherlock stretched his arms above his head, arching his back until it popped pleasantly. The clock above the mantle-piece ticked quietly as he absentmindedly bit into a slice of cold pizza, toying with the edge of his papers while he ate.

After several hours of Sherlock's silence and night-time T.V, John got up and trudged off to bed with a murmured Goodnight, leaving Sherlock to his notes.

The next couple of days flew by in a numb blur for Sherlock, the bubble he'd created for himself comprising only of text on the pages, his own breathing, and the occasional cup of tea that appeared at his side. He was constantly reading and re-reading the files and papers he'd already been supplied. He was really getting bored with his current supply of data, as by now it just contained facts he already knew. There wasn't much more he could squeeze from the papers, and it was getting to the point where he just had to admit it to himself.

"Sherlock, you do remember that I'm a doctor, right?" John's voice broke through his haze. It didn't sound real, like he was listening to the sound whilst lying underwater, so it took him a few seconds to discern what the other man had said.

Even after he'd figured it out, all that came it his lips was a rasping noise that was meant to be a "Huh?"

"Me, doctor. Remember?" John asked from his position of surveying Sherlock over his cup of tea with barely disguised amusement.

Staring at the man as though he were mad, Sherlock nodded slowly, trying to work out _why_ his roommate was acting so strangely.

"Well then, as a doctor – Get to bed! You'll burn yourself out if you carry on like this,"

"I've slept," Sherlock corrected him, his voice rising at the end as his indignation broke through. Personally, Sherlock never found much attraction in going to sleep. He couldn't deny his body when it began screaming at him to shut down and sleep, but it was just precious time wasted otherwise. He preferred it when it was quiet, it gave him an opportunity to reflect, to relax his mind…to ponder and get lost in his thoughts. Rest for a bit and re-charge his batteries, so to speak.

"Not for days," John countered, jabbing a thin finger in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. "Bed,"

"I'm not a child,"

"Could've fooled me," John grinned. "Bed,"

"But I'm no-"

"Bed,"

"John, you're bein-"

"Bed,"

"This is ridicu-"

"Bed,"

"John, I-"

"Bed,"

"_Fine!_" Sherlock hissed, irritation flashing in his eyes like electricity. "I'll go to bloody bed. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," John told the other man, fighting to keep his face deadpan. "See you in the morning,"

Scraping up the last of his crumbling dignity, Sherlock sent the ex-soldier a withering glare and headed for his bedroom, slamming the door behind him with such a ferocity that the doorframe trembled several seconds afterwards.

He would have felt quite smug about that, were it not for the fact that he could hear John's laughter echoing through the wall.

* * *

John Watson stepped into the kitchen the next morning, yawning as he rubbed a hand over the rough stubble on his face. He hadn't shaved in three days and it was starting to get annoying and slightly itchy. This seemed to be the way it always happened. He would get too lazy to shave, decide to grow a beard, and shave it off after a few days when it got to be really annoying.

It was strange, he mused to himself, after almost a week of awakening to find Sherlock still sprawled across the sofa to not see the detective in his usual position. But he stuck by what he had said last night. The younger man was running off of reserves of alertness that John hadn't known a human was capable of having. It had been almost mind-boggling to see the bruises grow under Sherlock's eyes and _not _see his roommate succumb to sleep.

As he poured himself a bowl of cereal, remembered there was no milk, and resolved to just eat it dry, he heard the trembling groans of the shower shudder into life, telling him that Sherlock had woken up. Well, it was a bit earlier than he would have liked, but at least the detective had gotten _some _sleep...he hoped. Knowing Sherlock, he could have just been lying in his room seething for majority of the night and refusing to sleep just to spite John.

The young detective, John had discovered since living with him, was a case study of contrasts. He could give deep insights that would make even a philosopher stop and stare in awe, or he could act as petulant as a small child denied his favourite ice-cream. John was sure that there was probably a psychiatrist somewhere who would love to get their nails into Sherlock and his various oddities, but when John considered his roommate the thought of Sherlock just made his head spin.

He heard the groaning of the shower cut off and not two minutes later a suitably drenched Sherlock wandered into the kitchen, water droplets soaking the top of his shirt collar. Locks of hair stuck comically to his pale face, making John stifle a smirk. He looked as though he'd never even heard of a towel.

"Happy? Am I suitably rested now?" Sherlock shot at him, flicking away the drops of water that had congregated across his eyelashes.

John appraised him for a few seconds, taking in the rings that were still under the detective's eyes. Only now they were a faint lilac rather than painfully purple as they'd been last night.

"You'll do,"

"Christ, you're like a mother hen," Sherlock sighed, but the slightest tweaking of the corner of his mouth showed John that the other man wasn't entirely irritated with him.

"I saw your blog," Sherlock commented absentmindedly a few minutes later. "About the cabbie. 'A Study In Pink', nice,"

Suddenly feeling quite self-conscious, John shrugged. "Yeah, well. Pink phone, pink case, pink lady. It seemed to fit,"

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

"What did you think?" John asked, irrationally nervous. Sherlock had casually announced that he'd be reading John's blog a few days ago, insisting that he was only doing do to make sure that John wasn't writing lies about him.

It had turned out that John was. Lying, that is. Sherlock had read through the blog last night before succumbing to John's orders of sleep, and had been quite surprised (A rarity for him). John had written about him like he was the best thing that had ever happened to the ex-army-medic.

Sherlock hadn't known what to think. It wasn't exactly a _familiar_ thing for him to be...appreciated the way John valued him.

He simply scratched his head uncomfortably, before obviously deciding to voice his opinion anyway. "_Deduction_," He emphasised, because it was safer to lock away whatever _that_ was and focus on the blog itself. "Is a science, John, an exact science. You've romanticised it."

John opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more. "..._How_ did I 'romanticise' it?" He spluttered, mildly insulted by the criticism of a work he was quite proud of.

"You should have stuck to the facts." Sherlock advised, before a quite offended expression crossed his young face. "And I didn't appreciate the personal slights!"

"Personal...?"

"Yes. 'Sherlock can see through everything and everyone. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things'!" He quoted, evidently having memorised the offending line.

"I didn't mean it like-"

"Oh, so you were using the lesser known _complimentary_ meaning of 'Spectacularly ignorant'!" The sarcasm dripped from Sherlock's tongue, the remarks cutting. "Sorry, I misunderstood,"

"Alright, I'm sorry," John attempted to pacify the other man. He'd been on the receiving end of one of Sherlock's more unreasonable tempers. That'd been terrifying enough. But to be the sole focus of an anger that was _because_ of him, wasn't exactly on his to-do list. "But, you have to admit, not knowing that the earth goes around the sun..."

"Oh, that again?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking more and more annoyed with each passing second. "What does it _matter_? I don't care, don't have to care. It affects my life in no way whatsoever, John. Has your life benefited from that knowledge?"

John blinked. "I...guess _not,_" He sounded more like he was asking a question.

"Exactly." Sherlock retreated into silence, his point proven.

"Okay. I'm sorry I offended you. That wasn't my intention," John apologised formally, a creeping sense of guilt filling him up. He hadn't meant to pique the detective. In truth, he'd been in utter awe of the man and had tried to convey as such in his blog. Aside from that one line, he'd done nothing but praise Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded, making an odd humming noise through his lips, the sound a wordless forgiveness. John nodded to himself, satisfied with the response, and returned to his task.

A gentle quiet fell about them, Sherlock listlessly drumming his fingers on the table and John scrubbing the few dishes that had been left by the sink. This was the way it tended to be in their apartment; long stretches of quiet until one of them had something to say. There was never any pointless filling of the silence.

A shrill ring echoed through the quiet as John was packing away the dishes, almost making him drop the china on the floor. Steadying himself, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Sherlock pull out his mobile – the source of the shriek. A spark glinted bright in the detective's keen eyes, something John had seen flicker into life so many times in such a short while. A flash that jolted Sherlock out of his stupor and back into the world of crime, danger and excitement. There was a case.

"Lestrade?" He asked out of habit, turning to his roommate as he slid away his phone.

"Yes. He needs me," Sherlock stood, a new spring in his step as he began whirling around the flat, grabbing his socks, shoes, and anything else he needed.

John watched in bewilderment as Sherlock managed to finish dressing himself and look entirely acceptable, straightening out any of the imperfections that had accumulated around him during the past two weeks. His shirt somehow uncrumpled, his socks now matched, and his cuff links were buttoned up. The only remainder of his disorderliness was the few smears of ink on the end of his pale fingertips.

"You ready?" Sherlock asked a few minutes later as he pulled on his coat and looped his scarf around his pale neck, looking about ready to leap out the door.

"Me?"

Halting in his momentum, Sherlock blinked confusedly at John for a few seconds before sending him a lop-sided smirk. "I'd be lost without my blogger,"


	4. Dangerous Game

Authors Note: Just to clear this up. I don't live in London, therefore any Geography within this fiction will be intentionally vague and more than likely incorrect. If you live in London and are offended by this, I apologise for this entirely but I have absolutely no patience with Google Maps. So I apologise profusely. Okay, Chapter four A.K.A 'The Plot Cometh'. Hope you enjoy this, and once again a large thankyou to every reveiwer, favouriter, alerter or even just a reader. I send you only the nicest of thoughts.

Chapter Four.

Dangerous Game.

As arrogant as Sherlock was around John, it was nothing to the way he acted as soon as he entered the offices of Scotland Yard. He almost seemed to _strut_ into the room, swanning through the rows of desks until he arrived at Lestrade's door, John hurrying behind exasperatedly in his wake. He didn't even bother to knock, simply thrusting open the door and striding inside.

"You're late,"

"I'm never late, Lestrade," Sherlock corrected the Detective Inspector, his voice laced with the undeniable arrogance he unknowingly - or perhaps it _was_ knowingly. It was hard to tell with Sherlock - emitted. "I arrive exactly when I mean to,"

"I was expecting you here ten minutes ago," Lestrade continued, closing the door behind John and returning to his seat behind the desk, a serious expression on his lined face. Sergeant Sally Donovan stood behind him, looking decidedly unimpressed by Sherlock's demeanor. But, then again, that seemed to be her default expression whenever Sherlock was even mentioned, let alone when she was forced to spend time with him.

"Really?" Sherlock's voice was now deliberately sing-song, obviously designed to irritate them both. John rolled his eyes, an action which Sherlock caught and promptly ignored. "Well, I'm here now." He said pointedly, reclining back into one of the two uncomfortable looking chairs opposite Lestrade's desk.

"Right," Lestrade said, catching the hint and sliding out two rather large polaroids from a thin blue folder lying on his desk and handing them to Sherlock. "Here,"

Sherlock perused the sheets for a long moment, his intense eyes drinking in the pictures, before handing the papers casually over for John to look. He stared at them in confusion. They were screen-shots from a security camera of a large rectangular swimming pool. At night, he presumed, due to the fact that the light looked rather unnatural. He switched between the two, as though he were playing an odd version of Spot The Difference. On one of the shots, there was a blurred figure in the water and in the other, it was blank. His eyes moved to the numbers along the bottom – they were thirty seconds apart.

"The swimmer is Dominika Chepelskii. She's a professional russian swimmer who's staying for a week in London before her next flight to America for some swimming competition." Lestrade waved a hand, dismissive of the full details. "Anyway, she's been training each night after-hours in the pool. Only, last night, her personal trainer arrived to find her missing,"

Sherlock raised an slender eyebrow, looking anything but impressed.

Recognising the boredom behind the look, Lestrade pressed on hurriedly. "He contacted us, and we sent some people to check out the pool. And, on top of her locker, we found this," He gestured to Donovan, who produced a clear plastic bag and laid it on the desk before Sherlock. "What do you think?"

Picking it up with his still-gloved hand, Sherlock slipped out the contents; An envelope. Not only that, but an envelope addressed to _Sherlock Holmes_. The consulting detective flipped it over, running a finger over the seam, and turned it back over. John watched him repeat the motion twice more, entirely confused at the other man as he murmured assorted words such as '_Left-Handed_', '_India Ink'_ and _'Obviously wore gloves'_, before Sherlock laid it back on the desk, surveying it carefully from afar.

"It's handwritten," He noted, an undefinable _something_ present in his smooth voice. "Not typed, or from a computer. Question is, was that because there was no other method available? That would indicate a disposable income and therefore a level of intelligence. Or it could suggest a level of technology in their place of residence, and that could lead to an address," Sherlock leant forwards, his pale face animated. "Or was it a conscious decision to hand-write it? If so...it's much more serious,"

"Serious?" Lestrade asked, ignoring the disbelieving scoff from Donovan. "Why?"

Sherlock looked up from where his gaze had been fixed on the envelope. "They're writing me something by which they know I can identify them, yet they still send it? Makes them confident that they won't be caught, which makes them arrogant,"

"And that means that they have good reason to be arrogant," John added softly, earning himself a small yet slightly impressed glance from Sherlock.

"Which makes them dangerous. Makes them _experienced_. Makes them clever," Sherlock continued, picking the envelope back up again. "Have you checked for fingerprints?" He asked, examining the still-sealed opening, holding it under the lamp on Lestrade's desk. "Saliva on the flap?"

"Yes. We found nothing. Flap glued down, and they must have used gloves," Lestrade informed him, handing him a letter-opener.

Sherlock slit open the top of the envelope. Eyebrows raised all across the room as a large pink phone slid out from within the paper.

"But...but that's the phone. _The _phone. From 'A Study In Pink'," Lestrade pointed out, suspiciously. Then again, he always sounded suspicious, so John could detect barely any difference.

"Or a good replic-" Sherlock broke off from his examination of the phone. "You read his blog?" He asked, incredulously. John was quite surprised too, and also slightly embarrassed. The blog had started as a way to merge back into civilian life - a punishment, he'd thought, from him therapist - he'd never intended for it to become a source of entertainment. Least of all for Scotland Yard of all places. Then again, he supposed it wasn't as odd as it sounded. No matter how much the man aggravated them, everyone wanted to figure out Sherlock Holmes. And he'd unknowingly provided them with a way.

Sherlock was _not_ going to be happy with him.

"We all do," Lestrade shrugged, Donovan nodding fervently behind him, a look of a cat with a canary in it's sights plastered across her smug face. "Do you _really_ not know that the earth goes around the sun?"

Sherlock shot John a look, silently telling him that this was _all_ John's fault, and fixed the still smirking Detective Inspector with a piercing glare. The older man shut up sharpish.

"It appears your blog has a far wider readership than you thought, John," Sherlock told his roommate absently as he twisted the phone around at eye-level. "But why? Why use this phone? The phone you specifically mention. Why not use some generic one? Unless...this is a warning all by itself. It's proof that, whoever they are, they're watching. They're informed. They know what's happening in our lives," Sherlock frowned slightly, switching the phone on. "...There's a text," He commented, eyes narrowing as he read it.

It was silent for a few seconds as he scanned the screen, everyone else in the room trying to interpret what the text said by staring at the expressions on Sherlock's face.

"Here," Sherlock handed it to John, leaning back in his seat and steepling his fingers, his eyes lost in thought. "Read it out," He instructed.

Rolling his eyes, John obliged. " '_I warned you, my little detective, to stay out of it. But did you listen? Well, let's see if you're as clever as you seem. Come and play with the big boys,' _What does that mean?" John stuttered in confusion after reading the text aloud. "It's not...?" At the look on Sherlock's face, he knew that his hunch was correct. "Moriarty?" Sherlock nodded.

"Sorry...who?" Lestrade asked. "Isn't that the man-"

"Who sponsored the cabbie, yes, yes, yes," Sherlock waved off the man's words with the air of a dismissal, despite the fact that it was Lestrade's office, and accepted the phone back off of John.

"Wait, what does he mean 'I warned you'?" Lestrade eyed Sherlock suspiciously.

The consulting detective ignored him. "What's interesting, however, is the way he's worded it. It's like...it's a game. '_Come and play_'," He mused softly, his eyes reading and re-reading the text.

"A game?" A chill, that had nothing to do with the temperature, squeezed through John's veins.

"Yes. He wants you to think she's still alive," Sherlock remarked, almost casually. "It's part of the game," The way he managed to inform them that the russian swimmer was dead, was so nonchalant that it bordered on callous. But John knew, despite the wave of disappointment in the other man that rose in his chest, that that was just the way Sherlock was.

However, Lestrade and Donovan looked quite appalled. "Isn't it possible she _is _still alive?"

Sherlock nodded lightly, looking thoughtful. "Yes, it's possible. But she _isn't_," A furrow formed in his usually smooth forehead. "In this sort of game, with this sort of person, there's only one outcome,"

"Are you sure?" Donovan asked, her face a strange mixture of disbelief, disgust, and morbid curiosity.

"You remember the cabbie, don't you?" Sherlock didn't wait for an answer before pressing on. "He was being _sponsored_ by Moriarty. Moriarty had so much control over that man. He made a game out of the man's murders – each murder, the man won a prize. Of course she's dead. She's part of the game. It's a game you can never win, he's loaded the dice in his favour. The prize, for us, is that she's returned alive. But she can't be – she's dead!"

"So, what'll he do when he knows you know she's dead? That you know there's no prize for us to win?" Lestrade frowned, evidently having decided to take Sherlock's word as gospel. "Does that mean you've won or..."

"No, that's far too simple," Sherlock tapped his lips with a slender finger. "It'll just mean I've passed a round."

"A round?" Donovan chimed in, her young face looking thoroughly disgusted. "So there'll be more murders?"

"Of course there will," Sherlock agreed, a strange fire flickering behind his eyes as he looked at the phone once more. "He's proving how clever he is. How he's cleverer than me. This is just one huge challenge that says; _Are you good enough to catch me_?"

* * *

Although the clutches of winter were descending hard and fast around London, today was one of the rare few days that the sun tenaciously attempted to give people a glimpse of it's fleeting warmth. Feeling the slight change in the weather, Sherlock switched courses on their way back from Scotland Yard and headed for a park a few streets away from their flat.

The large enclosed lawn of the park was filled with children bounding across the grass, adult convened on benches, and teenagers generally lounging about. The air was muddled with merging voices and shouts as the two men wandered absentmindedly across the park. The sun shone weakly, making both men glad that they'd decided to leave their coats at home, John dressed in a threadbare jumper and Sherlock in his customary suit. They silently decided on a spot, and lay back in the grass.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Sherlock pulled the pink phone from his pocket and began twisting it between his fingers. It looked to be more of an unconscious action rather than there being any actual purpose in the exercise. Mumbling under his breath, Sherlock lifted it to eye-level, and John caught sight of the text once more. It took him a minute to figure out that Sherlock was muttering the words of text.

Breathing a sigh through his nose, Sherlock bit his lip in vexation. His brow furrowed as he made an irritated noise and shoved the phone away again. Violently, he propped himself up on one elbow and glared at the space above John's right shoulder for a few seconds.

"This is a person who enjoys control, likes playing games," Sherlock murmured, his quiet voice full of fervour. "He's full of self-confidence, arrogance, scared of nothing and no-one..." He trailed off, sucking on his teeth as he thought. "So why's he contacting me?"

"You were researching him," John kept his voice quiet, simply stating the facts for Sherlock to analyse. "Maybe you got too close to figuring something out,"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I didn't find anything of importance. Nothing that would implicate him in anything, he's too good for that. _No_, it's not fear. It's something else, a game. A new game for him to play...I can't be the only one who gets bored,"

"So he's just doing this...to pass the time?"

"Partly," Sherlock nodded, his eyes creasing as he smiled. "But there's got to be another reason,"

"What about his message? 'A man of intelligence equal only to me'. And you said he's _proving_ that he's clever," John remembered, plucking a blade of grass from the ground and rolling it between two fingers. "Maybe he's heard of you, heard that you've solved difficult cases, and he's trying to prove he's better than them. Better than you,"

Sherlock stared at him in surprise, an impressed smile threatening to spread across his lips.

"Oh, I took a psychology course in med school," John explained, happy to have managed to surprise the detective for once.

"Full of surprises, aren't you?" Sherlock noted, a flicker of playfulness in his eyes before he turned serious once more. "But you're right, maybe he's proving himself. Maybe..." He trailed off. "Equal intelligence_. _Equal. _Equal_. He thinks we're the same, we're equals. He's clever, oh he's clever, and he's _lonely_. Most geniuses are. He wants a game, more than that, he wants an opponent. One who'll keep him occupied...And what's a game without _pieces_?"

Bounding to his feet, Sherlock yanked John up after him and pulled him out of the park without any more explanation. John briefly considered asking what was going on, but one look at Sherlock's determined face told him that he wouldn't get an answer either way. Instead, he let himself be dragged through the streets back to 221b Baker Street.

"Mrs Hudson?" The detective called loudly through the silence of the house. "Mrs Hudson?"

"Sherlock, she's ill," John reprimanded, slipping free of Sherlock's tight grip on his arm. "Leave her be,"

"Mrs Hudson?"

Sighing loudly as Sherlock ignored him, John made his way towards the door of Mrs Hudson's flat, leaving the detective to stand in the hallway, and knocked gently on the door. "Mrs Hudson?"

A flurry of clicks from just inside the door was his reply, and not five seconds later the door swung open to reveal their kindly land-lady. "Yes, dear, I'm here. Was that Sherlock I heard calling?"

"Yes, sorry," John apologised as the woman wrapped her blanket tighter around her shoulders as the chill hit her. "My rather rude roommate requires your assistance for something, do you mind?"

"Of course not, dear," She waved away his concerns with a benevolent smile. "Oh, that reminds me. A package arrived for him. Let me just fetch it," A few moments later she arrived with a large cardboard box in her arms, 'Sherlock Holmes' stamped across the top in bold marker pen.

"Let me take that," He offered, scooping the box from Mrs Hudson's arms. It was surprisingly light relative to it's size.

"Thankyou, dear," She smiled and pattered off down the hall to where Sherlock was waiting, impatient as always and tapping his foot. "What do you want, Sherlock?" She asked happily, her fluffy slippers shuffling.

"Have there been any..." His voice faded off as he caught sight of the box in John's arms. "...packages delivered," A triumphant grin lit up his handsome face. "Oh, excellent!" He moved in front of John, running a hand over the package almost lovingly. "Thankyou, Mrs Hudson," He threw her a winning smile before collecting the box from John and leaping up the stairs.

"O-oh," Mrs Hudson stuttered, raising a hand to her mouth in surprise as they watched Sherlock disappear from view.

"I'm sorry," John apologised for the other man, an act he'd had to frequently adopt ever since meeting Sherlock. "Thankyou,"

"No problem, dear," She called as he hurried up after his roommate.

"That was rude," He commented, turning the corner into the living room where Sherlock was examining the box.

Sherlock ignored him, instead staring at the box he'd set on top of the already cluttered coffee table. "It's the same handwriting," He remarked, tapping a finger alongside the writing. "Definitely a conscious decision," He accepted a knife from John and began to slit open the edges.

John couldn't see what was in the box from the angle he was standing at, but Sherlock's eyes widened. He delved a hand underneath the coffee table and pulled out his leather gloves, sliding them on before lifting a single trainer from the box.

"Now," Sherlock spoke quietly, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the shoe. "What does that mean?"

A loud beep sounded from Sherlock's pocket, making the detective nearly drop the trainer in surprise. He stowed the shoe away and then, incredibly slowly, pulled the pink phone from within his coat. His eyes darted along the screen, his eyebrows rising up his forehead the more he read. He stood, bundling the box under one arm. He handed the phone to John in silence, and headed for the door. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Sherlock wanted him to follow.

His gaze moved to the text, hurriedly glancing over it.

_Well done, my little detective. Poor Dominika is sleeping now. Can you figure out how? Tick, tock._


	5. The Mystery That Binds

Authors Note: Okay, this is where the plot _really_ starts to deviate from the normal one. Just a quick apology, there's one case of swearing within this chapter. I've been trying to keep this story relatively clean, because I don't remember hearing any swearing on the actual episodes. So, apologies for that, and also another huge thankyou to everyone taking the time to read and review this story. You are...amazing.

Chapter Five.

The Mystery That Binds.

Watching Sherlock work was endlessly fascinating. The very air around the man seemed to crackle with the energy he exuded as he prodded, poked, traced and swabbed every inch of the pair of trainers. John remained silent as he watched the detective examine the footwear, subconsciously trying to integrate himself in the background of the hospital lab so as not to disturb the younger man from his task.

The silvery tint of the lab's light bathed Sherlock in an ethereal, almost inhuman, glow and John was strongly reminded of that first fateful meeting that had changed, well, pretty much anything.

_"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street,"_

John snapped back from his odd thoughts as Sherlock dropped the pair of silver tongs that he'd been using to examine the laces with a resounding clang and huffed so hard that locks of his inky hair floated up in the air. A look of irritation splashed across his face as he glared at the offending shoes on the table.

"Tea?" John asked, intercepting the inevitable rant of Sherlock that was sure to begin any second.

Sherlock nodded absently, folding his arms across his chest violently and twisting his chair. "Use the staff kitchen on the sixth floor. The code's 3-5-3-7-9,"

John made his way out of the lab, Sherlock still lying languidly across his chair in a state of paradoxically intrigued irritation, and easily figured out the way to the staff room Sherlock had advised. He was just filling two nondescript ceramic mugs with hot water when a shout of his name made him jump and consequently spill scaulding water all over his hands. He swore under his breath, turning to see an apologetic-looking Mike Stamford standing in the door.

"Mike, Hello," He greeted, quickly moving to grab a tea-towel to wipe the water off of his hands. "How are you?"

"Good, good," Mike nodded, crossing the room to help with the spillage. "Sorry about that,"

"S'fine," John waved off the apology, changing his gaze from the sopping tea-towel in search for some milk. "How come you're here?"

"I could ask you the same thing,"

Finally locating the milk, John thumbed a hand in the general direction of the door by way of explanation. Then, realising that that probably wouldn't do it, he elaborated. "Sherlock's in the lab,"

If anyone could look more surprised than Mike right at that moment, John had yet to see it. "You're still...with him, then?"

John frowned, stirring the two cups simultaneously. "Yes," He looked back at Mike. "Why?"

"No reason," Mike back-tracked, holding up a hand in surrender. "It's just...odd?"

"Odd?" Even as he said the words, John knew _exactly_ why it was odd. Sherlock was...well, words wouldn't really suffice to describe the man. But he doubted that Sherlock had ever managed to find a roommate who'd lasted as long as John had.

Mike shrugged sliding his hands into his pockets and looking slightly like he'd regretted ever bringing it up. "Well...It's just that...no-one's really taken to Sherlock the way you seem to have,"

Not _really_ knowing what to say to that, John remained silent and waited for Mike to continue. Just as Mike was about to open his mouth, John's pocket bleeped loudly. He gestured to Mike in apology and slid his mobile out, already sure he knew who it was. Sure enough;

_Stop chatting, and get back here. Solved it._

_ SH_

"Ah, his highness beckons," John rolled his eyes, waving the phone vaguely as if he needed to demonstrate. He slipped the phone away and grabbed the two mugs of tea. "D'you mind opening the door?"

"Sure," Mike nodded, seeming to understand that John had to get back some time within the next few minutes. After all, he _had_ met Sherlock before and anyone who'd spent even five minutes in the man's company knew exactly how demanding he was.

"How on _earth_ could you _possibly_ have known that I was talking to someone?" John asked as he re-entered the lab, setting one of the mugs by Sherlock's side and glancing at the man expectantly for an answer.

"I didn't," Sherlock spared him a smirk over the rim of his cup as he raised it to his lips. "Logical assumption. You were taking too long. Even with your irrational animosity towards all things technological, there's only so long someone can yell at inanimate objects,"

"I don't have an _'irrational animosity towards all things technological_'," John protested.

"_Please_. I've seen you get into a fight with a toaster," The smirk turned wicked. "And lose,"

John rolled his eyes. "_Anyway_...You said you'd solved this?"

"Ah, yes," Sherlock kicked his chair, sliding across the room to where a laptop was beeping noisily - scanning, John recognised. "Well, sort of. There's pollen on these shoes, and if I can find out where it's from then-" He was cut off abruptly by the sound of a mobile ringing through the air. John tensed as Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket, but heaved an immense sigh of relief as the detective pulled out his own, and decidedly not pink, phone.

"They've found the russian's body," Sherlock commented lightly, sliding the phone away and returning his attention to the computer page that was still loading.

"Where was she?"

"She'd been placed back in the pool," As soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock's eyes widened and he became motionless. His apple-red lips formed a perfect O shape, before closing around two whispered words that seemed to hang in the air. "Carl Powers,"

"Who?"

But Sherlock ignored him, almost ripping his jacket apart as he yanked the phone back out of his pocket and slammed it to his ear. It was silent for a few seconds, but for Sherlock's fingers tapping on the counter.

"Where were her things?" He hissed into the phone, not bothering with a hello. "Her things! Her property? Where were they?" Evidently the person on the other end, John assumed it was Lestrade, wasn't giving Sherlock very helpful answers. "What about the shoes? Were they there?" He waited in perfect silence, looking like an untouchable statue but for the flickering excitement in his eyes.

Whatever the answer was, it seemed to please Sherlock for he tipped his head back and closed his eyes in an expression John could only describe as unadulterated delight. He hung up without another word, and continued his examination of the now loaded computer screen.

"Carl Powers," He muttered to himself, scrolling through the words. "Of course,"

* * *

John stood again, going for what felt like his twentieth cup of tea. The caffeine was starting to loose it's effects, and his eyelids kept drooping at regular intervals. The two hadn't spoken in quite a while, not since Sherlock's excited account of the boy named Carl Powers and his missing shoes. If it were anyone else telling the story of how they were suspicious of missing shoes, John would have been entirely sceptical. But this was Sherlock, and there was no way John was putting it past the man to have been that brilliant even in childhood.

Just as his hand hit the doorknob, Sherlock's voice rang with triumph across the otherwise silent lab. "Poison!" He declared, shooting up from his half-bent over position. He winced, having been in that posture so long that he'd stiffened. "It's poison," He announced again, waiting for the words to click in John's mind. When it appeared that John wasn't about to understand anytime soon, he elaborated. "Closturidium Botulinum. It's on the shoe, it's what killed Carl, and the russian,"

"Dominika," John supplied, stifling a yawn. Sherlock nodded slightly and uninterestedly, obviously not caring for the name. "But why wasn't it found in the bodies, then and now?"

"It's rare, wouldn't have been spotted unless someone was looking for it," Sherlock chattered excitedly, tapping quickly on a laptop. "But that's it, I cracked the case. I won the round," He clicked the enter button with a flourish.

"On your website...?" John prodded, waiting for an explanation as he sidled over to Sherlock's side and caught sight of the words 'Carl Powers', 'Shoes', 'Poison', 'Russian' dotted about the small paragraph.

"He's proved he's watching. The thug, the phone, the package, the texts. He'll be watching everything we have. Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed as the ring-tone of the pink phone chirped out into the silence.

" _'Well done, my little detective, aren't you clever? Time for a Time-Out. Take a break, rest your tired brain, and await my next message'_." Sherlock muttered aloud, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What? No!" He dropped the phone back on the desk and ran a hand through his already rumpled and dishevelled hair. Before he could yell anymore, his phone bleeped at him. "Lestrade," He commented after giving it a cursory glance, throwing the phone down beside the pink one in disgust.

"What does he want?" John asked, wiping at the sleep that was beginning to congregate at the corners of his eyes. How long had it been since he'd slept?

"Wants me at Scotland Yard. He wants to talk to me about the russian girl and Moriarty," Sherlock shrugged, swinging in his chair and scowling at the pink phone on the counter. John thought he looked something like a sulking child, all he needed to complete the picture was the pouting bottom lip.

Without bothering to tidy up any of the chaos he'd created, Sherlock kicked away from the table began heading for the door, stopping only to collect the two phones and slide them into separate pockets. "C'mon, John!" He called over his shoulder, as he swung open the door. "Time to go home,"

"Wait, home?" John asked in confusion as he hurried after him.

"Lestrade can wait until the morning. And besides," He stopped and gave John one of his lop-sided smiles. "My doctor says I should sleep more,"

"Smart arse,"

* * *

"Still hanging around him then?" Sergeant Sally Donovan was talking to him the next morning, and he was trying really hard to look interested and not like he was falling asleep. Sherlock hadn't allowed him to sleep last night – that infernal violin! Sometimes, John thought, Sherlock played badly just to annoy him.

But, despite his tiredness, he smiled nicely and accepted a mug of tea off of her, trying hard not to remember all of the times that she had called Sherlock a 'freak'. "Yeah. Well, life's never boring," He offered as an explanation, knowing he wouldn't be able to explain to Donovan the features of Sherlock he found so magnetic. Exactly _why_ was practically everyone seeming to be starting conversations with him in this peculiar way nowadays.

Turning away from the woman, John focused his gaze in the direction of his roommate on the far side of the room, listening to a fervent Lestrade. Due to his distance, John couldn't hear a word the Detective Inspector was saying, but he guessed that it was important, so he kept away. He caught sight of a movement from Sherlock as the detective slipped his hand back into his pocket.

A buzz from his own pocket drew John's attention away from Sherlock.

_Word to the wise: Conversation is more interesting over here. Ditch Donovan._

_SH_

Suppressing a smirk, John flicked his gaze to the detective. Sherlock caught his eye from across the room and winked in amusement.

"Oh, love notes this early in the morning?" Donovan asked slyly, her brown eyes sharp as she caught the exchange between the two men.

John sent her a withering look, beginning to get tired of her company. As nice as he tried to be to people - like he was balancing out Sherlock - there were just some people who rubbed him the wrong way. Donovan happened to be one of them. And why was she even here? She'd never expressed _any_ desire to talk to him before.

"What?" The sergeant asked, shrugging and feigning innocence. And failing. Badly. "I think it's cute." Really badly.

Due to the amount of times that she'd insulted Sherlock, he _highly_ doubted that to be anywhere near the truthful explanation. Since Sergeant Sally Donovan seemed to believe that Sherlock was the Devil Incarnate, he assumed that somewhere in her convoluted mind he was guilty of the same thing just by association with the man. There was no _way _she'd think anything to do with Sherlock would be _'cute'_!

Sighing softly, John attempted to ignore her, sliding the phone away. "I've gotta go," He told her, making to move away.

"Watson," She called, catching his arm with her hand. He sighed again, irritated already. "Look, I didn't mean anything by what I said," She started off with. John raised an eyebrow, he'd been around Sherlock and his observations long enough to at least figure out a lie. What _did _she want?

"Ok, Ok, so maybe I did." She shrugged, letting go of his arm when it seemed apparent he wasn't going to make off again.

John continued to stare at her, left eyebrow arched over his eye.

She shrugged again, looking more and more awkward. She seemed as though she wished she'd just let him go now. "I just think you're cute together – opposites attract and all that,"

Again with the 'cute'! He was mildly insulted to be described so _sickeningly_. And this was Donovan. _Donovan!_ The day she started referring to Sherlock as cute was the day that the sun rose at night for a laugh and the tide decided that no, sorry, it wasn't going to come in today. What. Was. She. Doing?

John rolled his eyes, hiding his layers of confusion under a practiced exasperated face. "There's nothing going on."

"Bollocks," She scoffed. "I can practically sense the attraction between you from across the room!"

"This is ridiculous. He's my friend," John said, starting to walk away, Donovan following. "Nothing else."

"You obviously want more." The short, shocking, string of words was called after him in a final and last-ditch attempt to irritate him. Donovan's voice hung in the air, attracting a few more curious stares from the desks around them.

Mouth hanging open in shock, John stopped and swung back around. "What? I do not!" He stared at the calculating woman in pique, trying to decipher her reasoning for being so, so, damn imposing!

"Oh, come on! He's a psycho, but I think everyone here has imagined Sherlock Holmes in only his underwear."

Eyes widening even further, John opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, lost for words and completely blindsided. Sergeant Donovan grinned in entertainment as two spots blushed on John's cheeks, before her previously good-natured and teasing face turned inescapably sour.

Ah,_ that_ was the Donovan he knew.

"But just remember that he can never sustain a _real_ relationship of any sort," She sneered, her dark eyes pitying and glittering with malice. She really was entirely _un_likeable. "Because he treats everyone like a specimen. Even you. Sherlock Holmes is as damaged as the rest of us, and he knows it. He's no better than anyone else, no matter what he tries to deny," She sniffed disdainfully.

His stomach turning, John walked away, leaving Donovan behind as he moved towards Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Something wrong?" Sherlock asked as he arrived, taking in his somewhat flustered appearance.

Deciding not to tell the detective about Donovan's catty analysis of him, he forced a breezy smile to his face. "Oh, Sergeant Donovan's been regaling me with stories about the female portion of the Police Force's sexual fantasies about you," He stopped and frowned. "Maybe not just the female," He stated matter-of-factly, recalling that Donovan didn't actually specify.

Sherlock blinked, looking entirely lost for words. "Oh?"

"Yeah,"

"Anyway," Lestrade cut in, using the universal meaning of 'Back to _me_'. "Sherlock, you were about to show me the latest text," He prompted.

"What?" Sherlock asked in confusion, as though he were just regaining consciousness. John smirked, unable to hide his amusement.

"The text?"

"Oh, right," The higher-functioning-sociopath tossed his phone to Lestrade, still looking slightly shell-shocked before the expression was hidden under the irritated face he'd been wearing since receiving said text.

Lestrade read the text through, his eyebrows rising higher and higher with each passing word. "Well, what does that mean? A time-out?"

"He's taunting me," Sherlock scowled, rolling his eyes in annoyance. Though whether the annoyance was at Lestrade or Moriarty, John couldn't tell. "Telling me I need to _rest_. That he'll wait for me to _catch up_!" His words were harsh, with razored edges, especially the words he specifically emphasized. He snatched the phone back off Lestrade, his irritation clear in the single movement.

"He's making you angry," John commented breezily, looking quite thoughtful as the tops of Sherlock's cheeks flushed faintly pink. The consulting detective sent him a look which clearly yelled '_You think?_'. "No, I mean it's probably part of his plan. Getting someone angry, means they're irrational. They don't think straight." He shrugged. "Just a thought,"

Sherlock nodded slowly, his eyelids flickering half-closed as his face was eclipsed in thought. It was silent for a few seconds, as Lestrade and John looked between each other in confusion about the other man's behaviour, until Sherlock's tense expression relaxed into a content smile.

"Right, well. Come on, John," He grinned brilliantly, and turned on his heel, heading for the door. The sudden movements sent more than one head spinning, and coupled with his comment had looks of confusion crossing all of their faces.

"What, we're going?" John asked, as a look of thunder clouded Lestrade's face and a smug 'Told you so' look was planted on Donovan's.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, opening the door and walking away. John followed, Lestrade in hot pursuit.

"Sherlock, we're not done here!" The Detective Inspector called after the pair.

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the room and turned back, a slightly amused smirk on his lips. "Why? I've fulfilled my _requirements_," He seemed to sneer the word, making sure Lestrade knew exactly what he thought of being summoned to the police station.

"But, the russian's body..."

"Don't need to see it. Absolutely _no _way to determine what he'll do next by her body," Sherlock shrugged, making to move away once more.

"But how was she killed?"

"Poison!" Sherlock called over his shoulder as he moved out of the offices, the doors swinging firmly shut behind him with a sense of finality that rang through the room.


	6. Calm Before The Storm

Authors Note: Thankyou, Thankyou, Thankyou, for all of the feedback on the last chapter. I seriously love each and every one of you so much. Okay, so here's the next chapter and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Chapter Six.

Calm Before The Storm.

Sherlock lay sprawled out across the sofa in the early hours of the next morning. The window outside revealed a grey cloudy sky and the sun shining weakly through the gaps, and yet another pile of papers sat before him on the coffee table. One slender finger easily glided across the one page he held as he read, occasionally moving to flick a rebellious curl out of his eyes. Picking up a piece of lightly buttered toast from the plate on the floor by his head, he munched on his breakfast as he soaked up the facts.

Only this time, the papers scattered across the table weren't concerning Moriarty. At least, not directly. Today, the subject of his investigation was the anonymous thug that had held John at gun-point. He needed something, anything, to take his mind off of the irritation Moriarty's text had prompted. And he'd decided on tracking down the man who'd brought the first message.

And so far he was getting...nowhere.

It had been simple to search for Moriarty. He only had to look for the gap in the information, the missing link, and that would be Moriarty. But with this unnamed, ordinary-looking man, it was much more difficult. He had no name, nothing to go on but the fact that he knew who the man worked for.

He scraped his pale hands through his hair, tousling it beyond all recognition, and placed his cheap pen between his lips. He stared at the information in front of him, his nose creasing as he scowled at it. There was absolutely no more progress to be made today, but he wished he had something more he could do, instead of coming up against unknown and unfamiliar walls in his thoughts.

A few minutes into his frustrated silent glaring at the papers, a small smile came to his face as he heard the muffled footsteps of his flatmate. Ever since John had become part of his life, a new pastime had opened up to him: John-Watching. Sherlock often found himself staring unabashedly at the other man, trying to take in every detail of the former-soldier with his curious eyes. Because John Watson was...fascinating. He was so deceptively ordinary, yet indefinable and endlessly intriguing. There were so many different facets to the man, yet they all bled together so seamlessly that even Sherlock was hard-pushed to figure out what the man would do next. Sometimes it was simple and John gave him everything he needed to know just by the simplest expression on his face, but at other times he found himself embarrassingly caught off guard by the other man's actions. So Sherlock did what Sherlock did best. He watched, he observed, and he learned.

Of course, he _was_ getting to know John in the normal way – without all of his deductions, without poking his nose into every bit of John's privacy, and without any of his usually incessant prying. But it was such an ingrained habit, that sometimes he just couldn't stop himself. However, despite his automatic response, this had become more of a hobby than a way of deducing. In all honesty, he watched John more than would be healthy for a normal man.

But it _was_ ever so slightly endearing, he mused, to see John stumble groggily around the flat first thing in the morning before his first cup of tea. And today was no different.

The shorter man carefully pushed open the door leading to the living room, his left hand shielding his eyes against the painful light streaming through the window. He mumbled something inarticulately about the sun, but continued blindly into the room. Due to his lack of sight, John immediately stubbed his bare foot on the edge of the door and captured his bottom lip between his teeth to restrain himself from shouting in pain.

Sherlock watched the action with a degree of fascination, trying to ignore the indefinable sensation his observation was inspiring inside his chest. John hopped the rest of the way into the kitchen, quite intelligently now keeping his eyes open as he leant against the kitchen counter and nursed his bared foot.

If it were at all possible for a man in plaid pajama bottoms and a beige, threadbare, woollen jumper to be dangerous, John managed it each and every morning due to his adamant refusal to be anywhere remotely near bright lights in the mornings. A yawn took over John's face as he flicked on the kettle and gingerly tested his foot back on the ground. The edges of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly as he winced.

"Tea, Sherlock?" John called, his voice croaky at this time in the morning after a few hours of deep sleep. He cleared his throat and tried again, his voice slightly more distinct this time.

Sherlock hummed in response, which he knew John would take as a Yes, and craned his neck as John moved out of sight. He frowned, silently chastising himself, but didn't bother moving his gaze as he stared at John – at the sleep-rumpled hair sticking up in tufts across his head, the stubble scattered across his chin, the button nose sprinkled with a few tiny freckles, and the easy way that smiles came to his lips. His chest tightened, the feeling not wholly unfamiliar, but definitely confusing.

Turning back around, he frowned, resting his chin in his hand, thoughts storming incoherently running through his head, each one as complex as the next. His stomach contorted, not in fright and not in ire, but in plain recognition of the fact that something was happening, something that evidently wasn't privy to even himself.

And it was dreadfully annoying!

* * *

"John, we're going out!" Sherlock called through the silence of the flat about a day later, around about nine o'clock. It was dark outside the window, the mist of the time of year making itself known with a vengeance, and John had been hearing numerous shouts and honking car-horns as a result of this obscurity.

John looked up from the book in his hands at the noise of his roommate's voice. The lights of the apartment were all but off, the only luminance coming from the muted T.V depicting an overly eager news-reader, Sherlock's open bedroom door, and the side-lamp that John was using to read by.

"Oh?" He yelled back through the rooms, seeing a shadow momentarily pass over the light from Sherlock's room as the other man moved about the place in his customary whirl-wind fashion. "Where?"

"Out!" Was the simple reply.

John rolled his eyes. "Of course, I don't know _why_ I didn't think of there," He muttered, a wry smile crossing his face as he set aside his book and unfolded his legs. He extended them slowly – they were very unhappy with him. He sighed and stretched, feeling several joints in his back give satisfying cracks. He got to his feet, wincing a little as pins-and-needles rushed through them, and stomped his feet a few times to try and dispel the annoying tingling feeling.

"Hurry up," Sherlock scolded him, halting in wrapping his scarf around his neck to rush his roommate.

"Alright, alright," John sighed, pulling his jacket around him and following Sherlock out into the freezing cold night.

He'd only known the detective for a few weeks now, but the pair had had enough life-threatening experiences to last lesser men several lifetimes. But they _weren't _lesser men, far from it, and neither were giving up their chaotic lifestyle anytime soon. So, whenever Sherlock began rushing around, a gleam in his handsome face, and a flicker of brilliance in his eyes, John knew the other man well enough to know that something extraordinary was about to happen.

And there was no way he'd be staying at home while it did.

"Sherlock..." John started about half an hour later as the pair walked across a wide foot-bridge that John had never seen before, Sherlock pulling slightly ahead as he led the way. "Where are we?"

The consulting detective spared him a look. "Didn't I tell you?" The expression on his face showed John that Sherlock had _intentionally _not told him. The realisation made his stomach flip both with mingling dread and excited anticipation. "We're looking for the man who held you at gun-point,"

The matter-of-fact, easy way that Sherlock happily told him so made John's head spin. "Oh," Was all he could say into the silence that stretched between them. He blinked once or twice, almost tripping over the stones that were scattered across the ground. "So...why are we _here_. Why is _he _here?"

"No idea," Sherlock muttered absentmindedly, his eyes scanning their surroundings. He stopped, leaning against the stone wall of the bridge and looked down. "This way," He grinned, slapping the stone once and setting off at a jog to a small path that led down to the pathway beneath the bridge.

"How'd you find him?" John asked as they skittered down the dirt path, kicking up a small flurry of dust in their wake.

"I'm _that _clever," Sherlock smirked at him, before brushing a slender finger past his lips in the age-old symbol of _Shhh_. He led the way under the lip of the bridge, moving under the shadows that had increased due to the lateness of the hour, and John imitated him, knowing it usually ensured his survival when he copied the man.

A way ahead, just outside of the bridge's far edge, John could just about make out a slim figure walking smoothing across the darkened foot-path. This, he supposed, was the man who'd entered their flat not a few days previously. In fact, if he looked hard enough at the silhouette, he could _just _about make out the slightly elevated left shoulder that he had noticed during their previous encounter.

"Keep to the wall, John," Sherlock muttered, pulling John closer to him as they crept beneath the bridge into almost near-darkness, his hand tight on John's arm.

It was so dark under the long bridge that John couldn't even make out anything more than Sherlock's outline in the blackness, and the detective was only inches away from him. So close, in fact, that the warmth of the other man was enveloping his left side like comforting tendrils of heat.

"_Dammit_," Sherlock's voice, though barely louder than the quietest whisper, cut through the silence like a knife through water. He stopped, stiller than a marble statue, pulling John to a halt beside him.

Following his line of sight, John's heart jumped into his throat as the familiar and longed-for sensation of fear and adrenaline kicked into life. Their quarry was starting to turn back on himself. Back to the bridge. The bridge that they were nearly out of. They were going to be spotted...And there was nowhere to truly hide other than a few abandoned wheely bins stuffed to the brim with rubbish and scattered against the wall of the bridge.

In other words, they were screwed. Dammit, indeed.

Or, at least, that was what John _thought_ until his back hit the wall by the bins with a muffled thump and Sherlock's body was suddenly pressed incredibly close up against him. The taller man placed his hands either side of John's head, braced against the wall, and remained perfectly still. His breath ghosted out across John's skin, making it difficult for him to think.

After a few seconds, though it felt like a muddled eternity, John managed to find his voice. "Sherlock, what are you doing? He's going to see us," He whispered frantically, as the crunching of stones underfoot announced the anonymous man's arrival.

He'd known the man had numerous eccentricities, but this was hardly a decent time or place to begin to display more of his bizarre oddities! Then, berating himself silently, he relaxed slightly; As odd as the other man was, Sherlock wouldn't do something if there wasn't a valid point to it.

And, sure enough, Sherlock's whispered reply soon breathed out across his ear. "Hiding in plain sight," He mumbled, John only just about to make out the outline of Sherlock's lips as they moved. "I can barely see _you_. I doubt our man is going to spot us,"

John nodded, finally seeing the logic in the actions. Such was the dark, that John could only make out a thin outline of the man pressed against him and little else. He couldn't see anything of their target, using only the sound of footsteps on stones to track the man's progress.

Sherlock leaned almost impossibly closer as the noise of the stones clattering passed right behind them. John's hand slipped to the gun concealed in his waistband, ensuing to keep his movements silent as sounds seemed to echo painfully through the tunnel. Both men tensed, muscles locking down and breath halting. John closed his eyes, counting silently..._One, Two, Three, Four, Five..._

Seconds felt like minutes, but the man passed by them without even suspecting that they could be there. John's lack of breathing caught up with him as he waited in silence, his head dropping forward from the effort and resting against Sherlock as he caught his breath.

"Why...did...we...hide?" He asked, each whispered word punctuated with a thankful breath. "We...were...following him," He lifted his head, allowing Sherlock to step back and put some space between them.

The consulting detective waited until the unnamed man was entirely out of the tunnel before answering. "I was hoping he would lead us to Moriarty," He admitted, kicking aimlessly at a gathering of pebbles by his right foot. "But, I guess not," John didn't have to see his face to know Sherlock was scowling.

"He could be going there now," John pointed out, his breath back where it belonged – in his lungs. They began walking back in the direction they'd come from, at a much more relaxed pace now than before.

"No," Sherlock's displeased face was thrown into slight relief as they stepped out into the night. While still dark, it was nothing compared to the pitch blackness of the middle of the tunnel. "He'd have gone straight there, not wandered around beforehand. And he would have been in a lot more of a hurry."

"Maybe he knew we were following and doubled back on himself,"

Sherlock threw him a look. "This is a man who pulled a gun on us for simple research. If he knew we were actively following-"

"But he only threatened us because Moriarty gave him orders to," John interjected, a furrow in his brow as he thought.

"John, we know he's _capable_ of violence. And he wasn't _forced _to deliver that message to us. He works for Moriarty voluntarily. That's not a man who only uses violence when ordered. I doubt he'd need commands for aggression," Sherlock raised a single eyebrow, his point made.

John nodded, biting his lip as he frowned to himself, mentally trying to consider any reasons that a man could have for walking up and down an empty back-street. After a few minutes of silence as he and Sherlock moved out of the quieter neighbourhood to the busy main roads, he'd gotten nowhere. Deciding to leave the deducing to the man by his side, he dug his hands into his pockets and strolled quietly down the London streets alongside the thoughtful Sherlock, perfectly content just to listen to the man think.

* * *

Detective Inspector Lestrade was not, by nature, a very relaxed man. His job as Detective Inspector simply didn't allow it. But, every night for fifteen minutes before he left for home, he sat in his office in silence and allowed time to pass him by as his mind sorted itself out. It rarely took all that long, as Lestrade dealt with his thoughts much the same way as he did people – short and to the point. But tonight, however, his mind focused on something rather strange. Something he'd never given much thought to before, but the circumstances of the past few days had brought them to the front of his mind; Holmes and Watson.

Sitting back in his chair, he clasped his hands across his lap and closed his eyes, turning to face the window of his office so as to think in peace.

The moment that John Watson had appeared at Sherlock's side, it was almost as though they were always together. They spoke almost in tandem, Sherlock making some convoluted point with John rounding it off with blunt ending for the non-geniuses in the room to understand.

Anyone else would look out of place with Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade mused silently. Sherlock needed someone who could be as close to an equal to the man as they could be. Someone who he wouldn't have to constantly worry about, or hold him back when he did things others considered to be psychotic. And John Watson managed to fit that profile completely.

And Lestrade had to give credit where credit was due. John had done the one thing that no-one else either dared nor wanted to do; He had gotten to know Sherlock Holmes as the man he was, and not the arrogant genius who frequented Scotland Yard. Despite the fact that Lestrade had more patience with Sherlock than most, he knew he'd go mad if he had to deal with even half of Sherlock's crap. But John put up with them, even enjoyed them if his muttered words of praise were anything to go by.

Shaking his head, clearing his head of the strange thoughts crowding his mind. He stood, collected his coat and made his way out into the nearly dark offices.

"G'night, Donovan," He nodded to his sergeant, still sitting at her dimly lit desk.

"Night, Sir,"

He swung through the double-doors and headed for the exits, his stomach thinking ahead to the Shepherds Pie that he knew was waiting in his microwave at home. It was incredibly late, so late that it bordered on early, but he hadn't eaten since lunch which was nearly eleven hours ago. He was hungry.

He was nearly out of the building before a small thought dropped into his mind. "_Shit!_" He mumbled, turning back on himself and heading back for the offices.

"Actually, Sally, do you have that file on Ja..." His question trailed off into silence as he looked around the now empty offices. "Sally?"

As he approached her desk, his police mind kicked into gear. Despite Holmes' insinuations, Lestrade was no simpleton. And he hadn't become a D.I by sitting on his arse for seven years. Something wasn't right here.

"Sally?" He called out once more, not expecting anything as his eyes scanned across the woman's organised desk.

The screen of Sally's computer flickered once, then blinked into life. Lestrade turned his head to the words that were now scrolling slowly across the screen, the two words making his veins run cold.

_Round Two._

_

* * *

_  
And across the city, in Baker Street, in a living room strewn with papers and two sleeping men, a phone screen lit up as a text came in...


	7. Seasons Change, People Don't

Authors Note: Wow, thankyou again for all of your feedback. The amount of people worrying about Donovan was nice, but I apologise in advance and tell you that it's not getting resolved anytime soon...sorry about that. But anyway, here is Chapter Seven and again with the use of swearing in. Then again, I remembered that in the episodes that Sherlock _did_ say 'Piss off' so i'm not going to worry about it too much. Anyway, enjoy this next installment and please take the time to just drop me a line at the end. Thankyou.

Chapter Seven.

Seasons Change, People Don't.

" '_You don't like this one, do you, my little detective? She mocks you, hates you, but you don't care. You're better than her. Are you better than me? Prove it – Find her. You have twenty-four hours,' _" Lestrade's voice seemed to echo through the offices, the disgust in his words reverberating back in each and every stony face watching him as he read the words from a pink phone in his hands. His face set like ice, he handed the phone back to the tall man standing just off to the right of him.

As the phone changed hands, Lestrade kept his eyes on Sherlock's face. "What the _hell_ does that mean?"

Slipping the phone away, Sherlock took his time in answering as his face was shadowed by thought. "It means...it means she's not dead," He offered off-handedly, folding himself into one of the nearby chairs, John choosing to remain standing behind him. "But she will be, if I can't find her,"

"In twenty-four hours?" Lestrade asked, anger leaking into his previously emotionless voice. "We've had people on the Missing Person List for _years_! How are we meant to find her in a day,"

"Less than a day, actually," Sherlock told him, not looking up from the space on the table he was staring at. "The message came in at just gone midnight. It's eight now. So we have...sixteen hours,"

"..._Sixteen_?" The disbelieving, almost gasp from Lestrade's set John's stomach rolling. The look of near hopelessness on the older man's face, _near_ not quite – Lestrade wasn't one to display weakness because of a criminal – was an expression that John had never expected to see on the man's face and hoped never to see again.

But before Lestrade could continue, a voice called over from somewhere near the door. "Sir?"

"Not _now_, Anderson!" Lestrade yelled, spittle flying as he turned to face the man across the room.

Anderson's face contorted a microscopic amount, before he strode into the room anyway. "This was collected in the post this morning," He told Lestrade, ignoring the man's thunderous expression and holding up a letter-size manila envelope. His hand shook a little as he handed it over. "Just been over it in forensics,"

Lestrade wordlessly took the envelope, sliding out the contents briefly, his eyes scanning the single piece of paper. His jaw clamped down as he took in whatever was on the paper, but he kept silent as he handed the envelope to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up, his face avidly interested. "Same handwriting," He commented lightly as John leaned closer for a better look. John wasn't _entirely_ sure if Sherlock had been speaking to him, or just talking aloud as the man was prone to do. He pulled out the paper and held it in front of his face, allowing John to see it also.

It was a photograph of Donovan. She was sitting on the floor, knees pulled up, feet bound together and arms behind her. Her hands were out of sight, but judging by her position they must have been tied or manacled. Her eyes were half-closed and so clouded by drugs that they looked gray instead of brown. Bruises covered her arms and neck, an ugly slice bisected her left cheek, her lips were swollen and split, and she had one blackened eye.

"Oh, my God," John murmured, sucking in a harsh breath at the sight. While he wasn't particularly fond of the woman, evidence of maltreatment to someone he knew was tough to see.

Sherlock had no similar reaction, simply staring at the photo with his customary appraising eye. John, though unable to see Sherlock's face from his position behind the detective, thought he could safely guess that the photograph hadn't effected Sherlock one bit. He wasn't sure how this made him feel... Disappointed? But he knew Sherlock, knew how little he seemed to care for victims. By all rights, he should be used to the man's detached methods, but still he felt so...so...let down by the man.

"If you check the background of the photo, you'll see a newspaper hanging on the wall." Sherlock spoke quietly, making Lestrade move closer to hear him. "It's today's paper, presumably to prove the photo was taken today... But _why_?" He placed the photo back onto the table and spun slightly in the chair, his feet dragging along the carpet. "Why take _her_? She's nothing to me - why her?"

"_You arrogant bastard_," Anderson's venomous hiss made Sherlock look up from his perusal of the tips of his fingers.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock cocked his head.

"Do you even _care _that she's gone? That it's _your _fault she's been taken?"

"My fault?"

"Yes, it's your bloody fault!"

John didn't have to see Sherlock's face to know that the man had a soft smirk on his face. However, obviously Sherlock decided Anderson wasn't worth his time and twisted back to face the photo. "But why send a photograph? It's an escalation, certainly, but _why_?"

Incensed, Anderson practically stormed to the open space in front of Sherlock's chair, glaring at the man. Lestrade's admonishments fell on deaf ears as he glowered at Sherlock. "You...you...you..." Evidently, words abandoned him in his anger. Whatever abuse he had for Sherlock died on his lips as he wound his hand back, ignoring Lestrade's admonishing cry of 'Anderson!'

John moved before consciously thinking it through. Maybe he shouldn't have done it, but the faces staring at him afterwards were priceless. Especially Sherlock's. So he couldn't bring himself to regret it _all _that much.

His hand shot out in a second of recognising Anderson's intentions, closing around the irritating man's fist and tightening. Hard. Anderson's face twisted in pain as John's grip increased, until his knuckles made a strange popping noise.

"I wouldn't do that," And John's voice was ice, the ex-soldier taking an almost perverse pleasure in putting the other vexatious man in his place. Because, of all the idiots who ridiculed and mocked the genius he shared the flat with, Anderson riled him the most.

As he spoke, Sherlock's head craned backwards to stare at him with a curious expression on his face. Curious, with a soft smile playing about his lips. As though he couldn't quite believe that someone was sticking up for him, for _him_, the sociopathic eccentric who pissed off everyone he met.

"Careful, John," Sherlock's smile, surprisingly soft for the man, twisted into the amused smirk he recognised. "You don't want to break him,"

"Don't I?" John retorted, before releasing Anderson and wiping his hand on his trouser leg as the other man stumbled back to his position across the room, suitably disgraced.

"Finished?" Lestrade asked into the silence. Unbridled annoyance tainted his voice as he glared between John and Anderson. "Can we get back to the case, or do you want to begin more pointless arguments?" He asked Sherlock, who merely raised an eyebrow as if to say 'Wasn't my fault', before standing.

He turned to John, a flash of _something_ in his eyes. And John knew something in Sherlock's brain had slotted into place like some intricate jigsaw. He tilted his head slightly to the left, a silent 'Let's go', and headed for the door. John followed – He'd always follow. And Sherlock knew it.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade thundered as they made to leave.

"To find Donovan." Sherlock stopped halfway out the door, peeking his head back around the wood. "Bye," He grinned and darted out of view, John falling into step by his side. Sherlock didn't talk again as they left Scotland Yard, and John didn't entirely expect him to.

He just hoped that Sherlock had a plan, for Donovan's sake.

* * *

A board, that John had no idea of it's origin, was propped up against the mirror above the mantelpiece. He'd seen the board before, pinned with photographs, blueprints, files, and multi-coloured pieces of string stretched across a map of London. John had, if he were being embarrassingly honest, been impressed by the board. It'd been the first sign he'd seen that Sherlock had _some _organisational bone in his body.

But now, the board was quite painfully blank. With only seven hours left until midnight. Until their time was up and Donovan, John assumed, would die.

And yet Sherlock simply sat on the sofa like an unearthed statue of some long-forgotten God, his fingers steepled together in front of his face as he stared at the blank board. Occasionally, as John watched, his eyes would flick to the clock on the side, before returning to the emptiness of the board.

Now, if he admitted it, John _rarely_ understood Sherlock's actions and their reasonings. But he could usually infer some logic from the man. This time, however, he could discover no meaning in the man's activities. Aside from...well, waiting.

Waiting for what?

A terrible thought hit John with the power of a lightening bolt. He felt guilty almost as soon as the idea arrived but, as with all poisonous ideas, it spread through his mind. _Was Sherlock waiting for Donovan to die?_

He dismissed the thought; Sherlock wasn't that cruel. He disliked the woman, maybe hated her but he wasn't sure Sherlock would lower himself to 'Mortal' emotions such as hatred. But he doubted Sherlock would just let her die.

But his eyes slid to the man, unable to stop himself. He watched his roommate's face as he stared at the board. He looked so...so...detached? Disconnected? Unfeeling? Which word would describe the purely _apathetic _look on Sherlock's face?

"What?" Sherlock's cut-glass accent sliced through the silence, though he never moved his gaze from the board.

"...Excuse me?" John's confusion was clear in his voice, not able to interpret the smarter man's thought patterns that led to him speaking.

"You're staring," Sherlock noted, as though that explained everything. Which, in fact, it did.

"Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't _seem_ to be doing...well, anything," John said, hesitantly. He knew how sensitive Sherlock could get if others thought him to be incompetent.

"...Your point?" It was almost callous how casual Sherlock's words were, the verbal equivalent of tipping a bucket of icy water over John's head. And the two words, inconsequential in any other circumstances, were like bullets in his chest. Because Sherlock _didn't_ care.

"My point? My _point_?" His voice was bordering on hysterical at the man's mildly interested, slightly bored tone. "Jesus Christ, Donovan's only got _seven hours_! Seven, Sherlock! Do you even care?"

Sherlock turned now to face the practically fuming John. Something flitted across his face. He flicked his hair from his eyes, and the expression was gone...but not before John caught a glimpse of the confusing riddle of a look. "Does caring help her? Does it get me any closer to her?"

John gritted his teeth, shaking his head in disbelief. He'd never been so, so, _disappointed_ in anyone in his life. Because no-one else's short-comings ended in another human being's death! And, he hated to acknowledge it, he'd never truly looked up to anyone before meeting Sherlock.

Taking John's shaking head as a negative response, Sherlock's eyes seemed to flash almost dangerously as he stood. "Then I'll continue to _not _care, and try to find her. Is that _alright_, Dr Watson?"

The formal address made John wince, and the air of comradery that usually hung between them shattered as they both glared at each other so intensely that John was convinced Sherlock must have coined the phrase 'If looks could kill'.

"But you're not doing a _bloody_ thing!" John all but screamed at the taller man, his vicious temper coupled with his clear line between Right and Wrong. Admittedly, he himself often jumped from side to side of the line, but only with severe justification. He could find no justification for Sherlock's actions now.

Sherlock merely looked away, a layer of frost glazing over his blue eyes. "I can't reason with a fool," He murmured, sending John a sudden glance that almost seemed to spit venom at him.

Blinking angrily as his fists clenched without conscious thought, John spun away from his roommate and headed for the kitchen, anything to get away before the urge to hit Sherlock grew to be too strong.

Collecting the few plates that the pair owned, John dumped the whole load into the now cold water of the sink, rolled up his sleeves, and started on a bowl ferociously, keeping his eyes fixed on a stained tile on the kitchen wall ahead of him. He could imagine Sherlock standing behind him, shaking his head in equal parts confusion and condescension. He wasn't sure which angered him more. John sighed heavily through his nose as his aggression increased and he tried to hide his shaking hands that were almost obsessively scrubbing at a mug discolored by tea.

While the anger was like fire, running through his veins and bubbling his blood til it spat and sizzled, the panic of yelling at Sherlock, of alienating the already aloof man, was like ice which froze him in his tracks and made his hands tremble all the more. He couldn't decide which to be; Angry at the man, or apologetic and wait for an explanation that Sherlock, _hopefully_, had.

In the end it was pride alone, _his bloody pride_, that kept him from turning back to the other man. Instead, he kept his head bowed and continued to scrub tirelessly at the dishes.

"John?" His deep voice called across the room. Not an apology, but contriteness ran through the words like an thin undercurrent. A _very _thin undercurrent, mind you. And John had spent enough time around Sherlock to know that he was only somewhat apologising for certain things, not actually admitting he was in the wrong.

But it was still the man's attempt at an apology, something John rarely received. It didn't merit Sherlock a pause in his almost neurotic labor, however, he managed to answer. "Yes?" He sounded so feeble and weak to his own ears, that it made him want to bury his head in the cold dishwater.

But, before he could even begin to consider _how _he would fit his head into the washing-up bowl, he felt a hand on his, forcing him to abandon his manic compulsion of scrubbing a now sparkling mug.

He returned Sherlock's look steadily, forcing his enangered breathing to calm. But he was surprised at how little awkwardness the unending scrutiny made him feel, Sherlock's eyes to his. He tried, with difficulty, to ignore the hand that had closed gently, but firmly, on his. But with locked eyes, he had a hard time even drawing in a single lungful of air let alone moving at all. He couldn't even blink as Sherlock seemed to search his eyes. Because Sherlock's eyes...it was as if when John looked into his eyes he was standing all alone at the edge of the world.

Eventually, Sherlock looked away yet the hand on his arm, a gentle touch against his bare skin, never moved, the warmth of the silent body by his side never left.

Due to their lack of cooking skills and high amounts of take-aways, their crockery stocks were not all that high, so it took John barely a minute to one-handedly scrub the remainder of the plates entirely clean and stack them away in cupboards. Once he'd been released from Sherlock's stare, of course. He could never have moved even an inch under it's intensity.

Actually, it took slightly longer to pack away the dishware because as soon as John opened the cupboard he thought to be the plate-cupboard he nearly dropped the stack of pottery.

"Sherlock?" He gritted his teeth and turned to the now mildly curious detective. "Why is your skull in the cupboard?"

"Hiding from Mrs Hudson,"

The chortle of laughter that sneaked, unbidden, from between John's lips was quiet. But, as the relief at the the break in the tension combined with the humour, and added with Sherlock's barely-there chuckle, it grew louder, falling free from his mouth and filling the room.

The slight hysteria in his laughter broke, shattering like glass as the taut connection between the two twanged to it's full extent – ready to snap. Yet, the laughter soothed it, bringing the odd bond between the two of them back together, closer, where it was supposed to be.

Eventually, after their slightly inappropriate laughing fit subsided and only occasional chuckles broke free from John's mouth, Sherlock tilted his head and looked at John intently – nowhere near as intense as previously, more in a curious, yet expectant, way.

"Can I explain myself now?"


	8. I'm Not Always Right But I'm Never Wrong

Authors Note: First things first, thankyou to every single amazing reviewer who thinks this fiction is worth writing to me about. And your concern for Donovan is great, but you've seen nothing yet. The Moriarty inside my mind is...really quite sadistic. Fun to write, in fact. So, enjoy this next chapter. And, for those of you who haven't seen, (Shameless self-promoting alert) I've posted a Sherlock Christmas Oneshot. So, if you'd like to take a look that'd be great.

Also, I was considering posting an earlier chapter this Thursday, sort of a Christmas prezzie. More to myself, really, I hate waiting for Sunday to post. So, please let me know what you think on the matter.

Anyway, I've babbled enough. Here's chapter eight.

Chapter Eight.

I'm Not Always Right, But I'm Never Wrong.

Sergeant Sally Donovan awoke feeling as though every bone in her body was on fire. The first pain was a scream of cramp in her right leg that pulled her out of her muzzy consciousness, penetrating her comfortable numbness like a serrated knife across her flesh. The instinctive movement of flexing the muscle triggered a flare of agony in her every limb, making her suck in a rattling breath, her lungs like sandpaper. She coughed painfully, lifting her head despite the sparks of pain. She blinked away the blurriness of her eyes, fighting for some semblance of sight, and looked around her unfamiliar surroundings.

All she saw, at first, was a thin crack of yellow light in the darkness. Panic battled with the pain for dominance of her body as she tried to remember what had happened, and how she had ended up...wherever she was.

She made to move, but realised that she could barely move her head before her body erupted in shooting pains, forcing her to slump back against the cold wall that was propping her up. She moaned softly, and her throat scratched like there were a thousand needles in her flesh.

And, she discovered, even if she _could _bring herself to move she wouldn't have been able to. There were tight restraints on her ankles and wrists, cutting into her skin. She could feel a thick crust of something, she suspected blood, coating the restraints and forced the nausea rolling in her stomach to remain there.

Exhaustion crashing over her once more, she sagged back against the wall and fell into unconsciousness.

A burning pain across her right cheek was what awoke her again, it couldn't have been even twenty minutes later, and she gasped her way back into awareness. Bright lights stabbed her in the eyes as her head was snapped back by a cold hand clamped around her chin, the back of her skull crashing into the wall with a sickening _crack_. She felt tears stinging her eyes as she recovered from the slap that had awoken her and the subsequent attack, her head like fire as she blinked through the water.

She couldn't make out the face of the figure in front of her, but the overall silhouette of it led her to believe it was a man. And when the figure spoke, it only confirmed her hazy suspicions.

"Rise and shine, Sally Donovan," It was almost cheerful, his voice was. As though she'd stayed at his house overnight and he were now waking her with breakfast in bed. Her burning nerves seemed to chill for a brief respite of fear at his voice and she just wanted to curl up and hide away from him.

But she had never allowed herself to do any such thing before, and she wouldn't start now. With a rasping breath, she glared at him. "...Who...are you?" The words split her throat apart.

"Such..._spunk,_ Sally Donovan," The man sounded nearly admiring of her, and the thought made her feel even sicker. "Impressive,"

"Who are you?" The words came easier now, as though the disgust in her stomach was able to make her scratching throat slick.

"Why do you ask?" The man asked, running a hand down the side of her face, and Sally could imagine the smirk that must have been plastered across his face.

Rage boiled up inside her. There was something in his his silken voice that was more appalling than a blatant insult. She didn't know what made her do it, maybe it gave her the brief illusion of having some measure of control, but she spat violently in to the man's face.

"Just _curious_," She sneered, jerking her cheek away from his hand. Unable to stomach being near him, she pressed herself back against the wall, biting her lip to stop herself from screaming in pain as her movements jolted her broken and bruised body.

Before she could blink, she felt the man's hand grip tight around her throat. The air was forced out of her throat and she pulled her neck away from the hand, trying to free herself. The grip tightened, causing black spots to appear in front of her eyes as she gasped for air.

"Oh, I can see why he doesn't like you," The man hissed close to her ear, the grasp around her throat loosening slightly as he spoke.

Sally forced in a meagre lungful of air, but that was all. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly as her head began to loll backwards. Just before her body gave up and let her sink into unconsciousness, the hand disappeared and she was left breathless and gasping for oxygen. She watched helplessly as the man came even nearer to her.

"Why?" She rasped, pulling in a painful gasp of air as she finished speaking.

"Why...what?" He whispered against her ear.

"Why...are you doing this?" She hated the sound of her own voice at that moment, so weak and pitiful. But she couldn't help herself from asking.

"Why not?" He laughed, the sound tingling her veins in fear. He stood and, still laughing, left the room. The door swinging shut behind him and leaving her in darkness once more.

Her head was pounding, and she realised that she was shaking. The pain radiating out from her body, coupled with the sickening fear, made her head fall back against the wall again. She closed her eyes tightly and prayed to God that this was just the worst nightmare of all time, and she was going to wake up any second now.

But, of course, she didn't.

* * *

The air was cold as John followed Sherlock down the road. There was no sign of the rising sun. The sky was dark and cloudy, and a stiff breeze was blowing the cold air around him so it invaded his jacket. He spared a glance to Sherlock, hoping to see the other man looking as uncomfortable as he, but Sherlock looked as annoyingly pristine as he had back at the apartment. John humphed quietly and dug his hands into his pockets; He wished he looked as confident as Sherlock did.

According to Sherlock, the plan was simple. According to John, it was _too_ simple. But he was taking the man's word for it. Apparently Sherlock's frankly amazing mind had figured out that the tunnel they'd hidden under yesterday was close to where Moriarty had taken Donovan. Sherlock'd explained that he thought that the man they were following must have been there for a reason, and so he looked for any abandoned houses or recently rented ones nearby. He'd found only one.

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me," Sherlock murmured, pulling John out of his thoughts. John looked up to see no less than five police-cars parked at the end of a street of houses. As he watched, the door opened and Lestrade exited, staring at Sherlock in confusion.

"What ar-" Was all the Detective Inspector got out before Sherlock cut him off.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked as they approached.

"I could ask you the same question,"

"I asked first,"

Lestrade sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in vexation. "Every member of Scotland Yard has GPS in their wrist-watch. It only brought us to this street, though. How are you here?"

"Would you believe 'Lucky Guess'?" Sherlock restrained a smirk before pointing absently to one of the numerous houses down the street. "I know which house it is,"

"You do? Which?" Lestrade asked, unable to pinpoint which of the houses that Sherlock was singling out. A fire burned in his eyes that John hadn't seen there before - apparently, Lestrade cared a lot for Donovan.

"Why?"

Lestrade stared at Sherlock as though he'd never seen him before. "What do you mean '_Why_'? Donovan's in there! You saw the photo's, she's tied up, beaten, and _running out of time_!"

"And you running in there, guns blazing, won't help," Sherlock retorted, his voice biting, rolling his eyes. Then, seeing Lestrade's equal mix of anger and worry, he seemed to take a mental step back. "Look, at the moment, it could go either way,"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Moriarty has two options here. And both depend on what you do; You storm in there, you force his hand – he kills her early. Or he could step aside, let her go and hope you back off,"

"That's one hell of a risk, what do we do?" Lestrade's voice twisted in the air, a thread of desperation running through the sound.

"But if you do nothing it's still a hell of a risk," Sherlock told him, now sounding not nearly as confrontational as before. "If we behave like he is in control, he effectively _is_ in control. And he can do whatever he likes,"

The desperation seemed to become full-blown panic in Lestrade's eyes, before he reigned it in. "What do we do?" He asked, his teeth gritted.

"The only thing we can do," Sherlock looked at John, silently asking his consent for whatever crazy thing he was about to suggest. He must have seen John's wordless permission, because he carried on without Lestrade even noticing the slight hesitation. "You wait out here, John and I go in,"

* * *

The window stood open though he remained in the shadows, safe in the knowledge that he'd be unable to be spotted by the grouping of men down the street. He could easily see them, standing on the street, all completely oblivious to his scrutiny.

He'd been chased and hunted before. Many times over the years, by so many different faces, all searching for a different alias of his. None had even gotten close, of course. But this one was special, brilliant...different. And he'd gotten much closer than any of the previous ones had, by a long shot.

He looked down at the men again, his keen eyes easily picking out Sherlock Holmes from the small group as they talked. He almost wanted the man to look up and see him. Or rather, he wanted to take another look at the man who seemed so similar to himself.

Not that he didn't know what Holmes looked like. He had plenty of surveillance photos, footage of him. He'd even been close enough to catalogue the certain haircut he had, the brand of aftershave he used, and both the regularity and the positioning of the nicotine patches on his arm – It was part of the game...But he wanted another look. Because this hunter of his was different to all the others; he was no policeman who'd _followed a hunch _or _caught a lucky break_. Sherlock Holmes was something else entirely.

_I see you, Sherlock Holmes, do you see me?_

He raised a hand to trace the outline of the tiny figure of Sherlock through the window.

Everything so far had been simple Child's Play. He knew it, and Holmes knew it. The famous russian girl had been enough to get the police to find his gift, a small way to give it to Sherlock. But he'd truly gotten the attention of the police now...Another piece in the game. Another colourful plastic block to add to the Lego tower that Sherlock Holmes was determined to knock to the ground. And as soon as Sally Donovan was back in the care of the _Esteemed _London Police Force, the fun would truly begin.

He grinned as Sherlock and his motley _side-kick_ separated from the other man and the pair headed back into the shadows until he couldn't see them anymore. Sherlock Holmes would think he'd won this one, but Moriarty was willing to make concessions.

Sherlock Holmes might win this round, but Moriarty knew that only he had complete control over the game.

* * *

"Front or back?" John asked, rubbing his hands together to keep away the ice that was already solidifying his breath, as they headed for one of the regimented houses on the street.

"Surprise me," Sherlock grinned for half a second, before pointing a slender, glove-clad finger at the front door as they stopped outside it. "Front's already open, look at the scratched lock. Go around the back,"

John smashed his elbow into the window in the back door, both he and Sherlock keeping a wary eye out as the noise seemed to echo through the surprising stillness of the night. A nearby net-curtain twitched at the sound, but nothing more came of it. John allowed himself to breath once more as he reached in through the window and twisted the lock.

He paused, looking through the gap in the door. No light, sound or movement came from within. He crouched over and led the way in, staying low enough not to catch any unwanted attention – or catch a bullet at chest level.

The place wasn't big, not by any means, but there seemed to be an infinite amount of rooms which meant more places where Donovan could be...and the longer they had to be in the eerily empty house.

Alert, on the watch for any surprises which he was learning to live with since meeting Sherlock, John let Sherlock take over and followed the other man further into the house. They stopped just short of the stairs, Sherlock twisting his head from side to side as he looked around. John saw several footprints through the dust, but there were too many conflicting patterns for him to determine where Donovan was.

Apparently, Sherlock didn't suffer the same difficulty, proving this with the words "This way,"

But, John wondered as he followed the man up the flight of stairs and laid a hand on his gun, was Sherlock looking for Donovan or Moriarty? John brushed off the feeling of unease he felt in his bones, trying to focus on the task at hand.

Three quarters of the way up the stairs, one creaked. That was inevitable, wasn't it? John saw Sherlock freeze before him and quickly followed suit, both listening intently and neither daring to move a muscle. Silence. They continued.

"This feels too easy," John murmured as they followed another hallway.

"Because it _is _too easy," Sherlock told him, his voice low as he stopped outside a door so quickly that John almost bumped into him. He steadied himself against Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock seemed to study the door for a few seconds, and John thought he noticed a spark of apprehension in the other man's eyes. But when he looked again, it was gone. Sherlock reached out to twist the handle, when a sudden scuffling noise made both men jump so much that they seemed to lift off of the ground and away. And it was coming from behind the door.

"Donovan?"

The scuffling stopped, only to be replaced with an almost indiscernible whimper.

"Is Moriarty here?" John asked Sherlock, now moving to rest his hand on the door-handle as he tried to fight of the disgust that the single mewl from behind the door had caused to bubble sickeningly in his stomach.

He saw Sherlock nod in his peripheral vision. He looked like he wanted to say something, but John couldn't be sure.

He finally pushed open the door...and only just about managed not to stumble at the sight inside the tiny room. The image of the photo they'd be sent had clearly intensified since being taken. She was still tied up, and both cuts and bruises still littered her skin, but she was slumped back against a blank wall splattered with a dark red liquid that John could only assume was blood.

She seemed to be on the edge of unconsciousness, but she still had the strength to recoil as John edged closer and crouched by her side. He could barely make out her face in the darkness. Donovan bit her lip, flinching away from his hand as he made to lift her head.

"Sally?" He spoke quietly as he watched her terrified face, looking up only when he heard Sherlock's footsteps move away. He ignored the other man for the time being, focusing on Donovan's injuries. "Sally, it's me. It's John. John Watson," He told her gently, evaluating her health with his eyes alone as she seemed unlikely to respond well to physical contact.

Her injuries were..._cruel_ was the only word he could think of to describe them. Her right arm was broken, judging by the awkward angle it was being held behind her back at, and the left was more than likely dislocated. Her breathing was rattled and forced, leading him to believe that she had a broken rib or two. Possibly from being thrown against the wall, if the bloodstains spattering the paint-work were anything to go by. A large bruise also dominated the right side of her face – She'd been slapped.

There were probably going to be more injuries, but he couldn't tell without examining her. All he really knew was that she had to get to a hospital, and fast.

"Watson?" She slurred as he made to lift her, seeing no other way to move her. He doubted she could walk in her condition. "If _you're _here...then where's the fre-" Her words cut off as her head lolled backwards and she became a dead-weight against him.

"Lovely," Came the deep voice of Sherlock from the door. "Even when I'm part of her rescue-mission, she still finds the time to insult me at least once,"

"Tragic, I know," John muttered. "You gonna give me a hand?" He asked, looking pointedly between the man who was leant lazily against the doorframe and the woman in his arms.

"I think you're fine," Sherlock told him, a slight smirk crossing his handsome face. "Moriarty isn't anywhere in the house. But he _was _here," He informed John as the shorter man made his way slowly past Sherlock and began to head for the stairs.

"He's very _into _this, isn't he," John noted, groaning slightly and trying to shift Donovan's weight as he took the first step down the stairs and nearly dropped her. He adjusted her in his arms and tried again.

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is..." He stopped again gritting his teeth as Donovan seemed to get impossibly heavier. "He's not...too fond of delegating, is he? He's being...Christ she's heavy...very personal in all of this,"

Sherlock's grip on his arm, which he hadn't realised was there before, tightened momentarily and his face seemed to light up. He turned to him, his mouth already open and words just about to tumble off the edge of his tongue.

"Maybe we should wait until Donovan's safe," John interjected before the first syllable was out in the open. "Before you start being brilliant again,"

It was almost a smile that crossed Sherlock's lips, yet not quite. But, rather surprisingly, he did shut up. John's eyebrows lifted at that, but he kept quiet as they descended the stairs, not wanting to jinx it. It was rare that Sherlock was silent.

John watched Sherlock as he led the way out of the house, and he could easily see the way his roommate had an almost indefinable energy pouring off of him in waves. John wasn't sure if it was the thrill of being _right_, or the anticipation of the next round that would surely be coming their way, but it was intoxicating to see. See it up so close that he felt he could reach out and clutch at it until it numbed the tips of his fingers and tingled his nerves.


	9. As Close To Normality As We Can Get

Authors Note: Okay, I apologise in advance for the distinct lack of puzzles and action within this chapter. Apparently my writing style seems to be strongly similar to my Moriarty's ways; Do all the action, then take a little break. On the plus side, there's Sherlock-Watching from John's end, if that's the sort of thing you enjoy. I know I enjoy writing it just as much as the action stuff. Anyway, I hope you all have a great Christmas, get everything you want, eat too many mince-pies, all that malarky. Enjoy!

Chapter Nine.

As Close To Normality As We Can Get.

Sherlock paid the cabbie with a twenty and slammed the door behind him. He was nothing if not annoyed. He'd been called back into Scotland Yard at the hellish hour of six that morning for what, he believed, had turned out to be a completely pointless recap of the events of last night. Not only was he not happy about being _summoned_ like some kind of house-hold pet, but he didn't care that Donovan was in a stable condition nor that the house that they'd found her in had been spotted with a car outside the door. All he was interested in was Donovan's recollections of Moriarty, but the sergeant had yet to give her statements.

Like he said, pointless.

However, something good had come of Donovan being taken. (Though he was never going to voice that opinion near anyone). Namely, in John's words as they'd left the abandoned house. _"He's very into this, isn't he...He's not too fond of delegating, is he?...He's being very personal in all of this,"_ Something sparked off the fire in Sherlock's mind, connecting dots he hadn't even known existed before. Because John was right. Sherlock'd pegged Moriarty wrong. Maybe it was because of the unnamed gun-man who'd held John at gun-point, but Sherlock had assumed that Moriarty was the type to not get his hands dirty, to delegate rather than do his own work. But, as John had said, aside from that one man, there had been no hint of Moriarty using anything other than his own genius.

He wasn't sure what it meant now that the opposite was true, but he could say one thing with absolute confidence; It was bad news for the gun-man.

Strangely, he couldn't bring himself to care. Funny, that.

He'd left John still asleep in his room – having found himself strangely unwilling to wake the other man that morning - but apparently that was no longer the case. As he entered the cluttered flat, he spotted John lounging in his usual comfy position in the armchair. The shorter man looked up as he arrived, and spared him a quiet smile, before looking back to his half-completed newspaper crossword and steaming cup of tea.

He didn't even bother looking up again as he asked, "Ten letters, fourth letter G, fond of company or sociable?"

"Gregarious," Sherlock supplied, shrugging off his long coat and collapsing backwards over the arm of the sofa and being caught by the familiar leather. He pulled off his leather gloves and threw them in the direction of his feet.

John's eyes flicked up once more as he gave Sherlock a quick smile and scribbled it down.

"Don't you want to know where I was?" Sherlock asked after a few minutes of the comfortable silence they were both so used to.

"I've stopped asking questions," John muttered, rolling his pen between his fingers as he considered his crossword. A trail of smeared blue ink was left on his fingertips as a result. "You rarely answer them and if you do, the answers are scary,"

Sherlock threw the nearest thing to hand, a book, at John's head which the other man neatly dodged. "Missed," John gloated, his voice paradoxically lazy and sharply amused. "Go on then," He grinned after setting his newspaper to one side. "Where were you?"

Eying John for several seconds, he simply shrugged and said off-handedly. "Scotland Yard. Did you get to the shops?"

He missed John's exaggerated eye-roll. "Not yet. I'll go later. What did Lestrade want?"

They'd perfected this; the art of holding two totally unrelated conversations at once. "Nothing interesting. When you do go, we need bread,"

"But Mrs Hudson brought us bread yesterday, what happened?"

"Got hungry,"

"It was a whole loaf!"

"Okay, I got _very _hungry,"

John's laugh stuttered out from between his lips without his consent. "Fine, I'll pick some up. How's Donovan?"

"Still managing to be irritating while she's unconscious," Sherlock told him, his eyes tracing the patterned ceiling as his hands clasped behind his head. "She's the only one who's met Moriarty and _lived_, but until she's back amongst the living we have no record yet. Perfectly annoying,"

"Yes, the very nerve of her," John rolled his eyes yet again.

"At least you agree," Sherlock smirked, seeing John pull an immature face at him from the corner of his vision. He rolled onto his side and looked begrudgingly at the papers still left on the coffee table.

He had been staring at the information for weeks, and nothing was happening. Information rolled in, was analysed and discarded until there was no more information left and he started again from scratch. No leads. No answers. No end in sight.

He poked a single finger at a pile of papers nearby which was teetering precariously, until it settled again. He gave it another sharp poke for good measure. The pile wobbled. And a landslide of sheets rained down on his lap, scattering across the floor. He heaved a heavy sigh and began to pluck the pages from his head, the floor, and everywhere else they had managed to spread, studiously ignoring John's laughter.

As soon as he'd collected together the mess he'd managed to create, he stood and marched defiantly through to the over-crowded kitchen, throwing the papers in the bin with a sense of finality about it.

"What did the papers do to you?" John asked, with far too much amusement for Sherlock's liking.

"They had it coming," Sherlock told him, collecting the book he'd thrown at John before on the way back to his seat.

"Of course they did," John agreed lightly, nibbling absentmindedly on the end of his tattered Biro pen as he contemplated yet another unfathomable crossword clue.

_Classic Icelandic Poetry...Four letters...Oh, I've no idea!_

John set the impossible crossword to one side, huffing slightly at his own inability to finish it. He'd never managed to complete one in his entire life. He supposed he _could _ask for Sherlock's help once more, but he steadfastly refused to polish the man's already glistening ego any more than he knew he already did, however inadvertently.

Shaking his head, he glanced up, his eyes brushing over the dark-haired man sprawled out across the sofa, the top button on his blue shirt undone, the unbelievably pale flesh of his throat peeking out from between the gaps, his sleeves pushed up as his fingers traced the words of his book.

Sherlock was...a challenge. John guessed that it had to be admitted, but he was more than that. The differences between the two men ran like a river; however it was those differences that pulled them together. It was something he couldn't deny.

John kept his eyes on his unknowing, _hopefully_, roommate as his mind took off down the strange and odd paths that it seemed so prone to doing lately. He considered how frighteningly, amazingly intelligent Sherlock was, and how much John loved their conversations together which could be deep or meaningless, fiery or relaxed.

Moving past Sherlock's odd personality, the taller man was really quite handsome, once you got past that unsettling smirk. But John'd realised a while ago that it was only unsettling because you didn't know what Sherlock was thinking, whether he was laughing at you, planning to do something to you or whether it was something completely unrelated to you.

But Sherlock… he was the kind of person that once you met him you forgot what your life was like before you met him and so, essentially, you couldn't really have existed before because there's no way in hell that you can imagine living without him in your life again.

He must have felt John's eyes on him, for a moment later, Sherlock glanced up, his eyes partially obscured by his tousled hair. Their eyes met for a brief second, John's head tilted to the side, before Sherlock flashed John a heart stopping, devastating smile and he felt himself grin back like a complete fool. It was a smile he was rarely treated to seeing on the face of his roommate, but every time he saw the full lips stretch into that grin, the subtle dimples appearing in the pale, smooth cheeks… it always made his heart race strangely.

Blinking himself out of his decidedly odd, and somewhat dangerous, thoughts, he stood and headed for the kitchen. He flicked on the kettle, trying to distract himself with the mundane task of making a cup of tea. He pulled out two mugs, force of habit, and rested against the counter.

"Can yo-"

"I'm doing it," He cut Sherlock off, waving one of the mugs back in the detective's direction.

"Oh," John smiled at the mildly confused expression on Sherlock's face, as though he wasn't quite sure what to make of this situation. It was an expression he saw quite often, despite the fact that he knew he wasn't meant to see it. It was like Sherlock wasn't used to have someone else do things for him, care for him, like John did.

Sherlock shrugged awkwardly to himself, and returned to his book. "None of those infernal chocolate biscuits you love so much, thanks,"

"Yeah, I know," John rolled his eyes for what felt like the umpteenth time that day, and Sherlock had only been home ten minutes.

When he returned, clutching the two mugs of tea tightly so they didn't spill all over him, Sherlock had exchanged his partially-read book for the pink mobile phone and was staring at the screen intently.

"New text," Sherlock offered by way of explanation before John could even ask. He took the mug of tea John held out, somewhat distractedly, and took a swig. His eyes never left the screen, scrolling along the text that John could see a distorted reflection of in his eyes.

"Budge over," John muttered, nudging Sherlock with his knee. Without complaint, Sherlock sat up and swung his legs off of the sofa, allowing John some room to sit down. "Ta,"

Sherlock hummed in response as John settled himself next to him and peered over his shoulder to read the text.

_Smart boy, figuring out where I kept Darling Sally. Well, I'm not one to break pattern now. Take your break, My little detective...and watch your back._

The words glared back at him, almost as though challenging him to a staring contest. He blinked, effectively loosing, and re-read the words. And re-read again. Each time he read the same words, he was just more and more baffled. He couldn't believe, no matter how many times a text from Moriarty came through, how _friendly_ the man was. As though he were contacting an old friend. It chilled him every time.

"He's..." John stopped, lost for words to describe that man. "Mad," Was the only one that came to him.

"That's one way to describe him, certainly," Sherlock murmured monotonously, his eyes still on the screen.

"And how would _you _describe him?" John asked, taking a gulp of his tea and eying Sherlock expectantly. "Brilliant?"

Obviously, his care-free words were the right ones to shake Sherlock from his spell-bound staring at the phone. It was as though John's voice had turned to poison. Sherlock seemed to recoil from John, pressing back into the leather arm of the sofa to escape, with a quickness that put instinct to shame. A flash of anger stormed into his eyes and he looked as though he would quite like to hit his roommate then, but then he blinked it away. But, in it's place, a layer of frost glazed the blue orbs.

"Psychotic was going to be my word of choice, actually,"

It caught John off guard, how icy Sherlock's voice was, and he stared at his roommate in confusion. "Really?"

"Yes," Sherlock almost snapped, but not quite. "Really. Shocking, I know, but I _do _recognise when someone's out of line – no matter how interesting,"

"Alright, I'm sorry," John frowned, grasping Sherlock's forearm as the taller man made to stand. Sherlock stared at the hand on him as though it were a particularly interesting puzzle, but refused to meet John's eyes. "I didn't mean to offend you, or-"

"And yet, you managed it." Sherlock's voice was lethally cool, his eyes glacial as he scanned John's face. However, what he saw there must have satisfied him somewhat because he made no further move to leave.

"I'm sorry," John repeated, sounding much more genuine this time. He certainly hadn't _intended_ to insult Sherlock, he'd just taken it for granted that Sherlock would be as intrigued of Moriarty as he was with usual cases. "I made an assumption, and I shouldn't have,"

Sherlock made an odd noise, somewhere between a muffled word and a hum, but he relaxed back into sofa so John assumed he was somewhat forgiven. He smiled slightly, despite Sherlock's still remaining traces of irritation. He knew how unforgiving the man could be.

He also knew that Sherlock wouldn't have forgiven anyone else that quickly. He wasn't sure what to make of that. He likewise wasn't sure whether the small warmth spreading through his body was because of this realisation, or from the heat of Sherlock's body which he now recognised was incredibly close. Did they always sit that close? He wasn't sure.

Shaking his head to clear it, he stood. "Well, I'm off," He announced, searching for his jacket. It had to be somewhere around here, it was probably buried under the mess that their living room had become in recent weeks.

"Where're you going?" Sherlock asked as he made to leave the room. He turned away from his jacket-searching task to look at his roommate, restraining a smirk as he saw the confusion on Sherlock's face. It wasn't often he saw the much smarter man bemused.

"I _do _have a job, you know," John reminded him. "I don't just follow you around for a living,"

"Really? Sounds like fun to me," Sherlock grinned, reclining back onto the sofa once more and picking up his book again.

"Doesn't pay the rent, though," Ah, there was his jacket. Partially hidden under a London A-Z and a suspiciously smoking green box that made him slightly concerned. But, he decided, ignorance was bliss, and just left it where it was. "I'll be back later. I suppose I can count on you _not _getting the shopping, then?" He asked Sherlock as he shrugged the jacket on.

"Remember bread," Was the simple reply.

"Yeah, yeah," He called back, leaving the room and heading for the stairs.

"Have _fun_,"

He wasn't sure he liked the entirely _too _mocking lilt to Sherlock's voice.


	10. Sick Little Games

Authors Note: Well, I hope you all had a great Christmas. I know it's only boxing day, but I've been testing out my new laptop and thought that I _would_ post the next chapter. I was going to wait until next Sunday, when it wasn't Christmas, but apparently I'm not very good at sticking to my resolutions. Anyway, thankyou to the reviewers, the favouriters, the alerters and all the readers. I love you all! So, without further ado, here's Chapter ten. I hope you like it.

Chapter Ten.

Sick Little Games.

_His stomach clenches oddly with the intoxicating mix of adrenaline, fear and that unnameable rush as yet another bullet whizzes past his left ear. The dust of the air, the stench of the gunpowder, fills his nostrils. The humming gun in his hands is warm to the touch, bullets flying from the end without second thoughts. He shouts to his other khaki-clad comrades, words he's not fully conscious of roaring in his ears._

_The gun changes, swimming in his vision and shrinking to a normal hand-gun, the one he remembers he keeps in his drawer. He's no longer wearing his uniform, but normal civilian clothes, boring and unnoticeable. His determined reflection stares back at him from the window, and as the gun fires, splinters crack across his face. One of the two men in the room opposite falls, the other spins to face him. John disappears._

_And then he's drowning, not in water but in guilt that forces itself down his throat as harshly as thought it actually were the sea. Guilt, not for the lives he has taken nor the bullets fired from his gun, but for the lack of guilt he feels. A bubble of remorse lodges in his throat, choking him, strangling him, throttling him. Forcing his breath to remain in his lungs, and he'll never get it out, never be free, never breathe again..._

Pain blossomed around the base of John's neck, the sensation jarring him awake. It took a few seconds for him to realise that the feeling was coming from his nails digging into his own neck, scrabbling at the flesh as he tried to dislodge the sense of asphyxiation.

"John, stop," The voice that came from somewhere above him and to the left was calm, quiet, and unmistakably Sherlock. Cool hands grasped at his own curled pair and pulled them away from the hollow of his throat, slowly working his nails out of bloodied skin.

John could feel himself starting to calm down slowly. He let out a slow sigh and listened to the slow exhale of breath that was breezing over his forehead. It was comforting.

But the voice and the breath hadn't been there when he'd fallen asleep, he was certain of it, so _why _were they in the room now? John unglued one unwilling eyelid, and blearily tried to fix his fuzzy vision on the blurry figure hovering just above him.

"Sherlock?" He asked, his voice rasping so painfully that it felt like razors were dragging along the inside of his throat.

"Who else were you expecting, John?" The slow finely-accented drawl, obvious in it's characteristic arrogance, made John smile weakly despite his still racing heart. "I heard you yelling. Thought it best to wake you before you woke Mrs Hudson," Despite the nonchalant explanation, a quiet edge of never-before-seen worry was laced in the detective's voice.

"Kind of you," John chuckled, the sound agonising.

"You're too hot," Sherlock noted, and through John's rapidly clearing vision he could make out a subtle crease of concern forming between Sherlock's eyebrows. The higher-functioning-sociopath pressed his uncommonly cold hands to John's cheeks in an effort to cool down the doctor's face.

John sighed in relief at the unexpected respite Sherlock's hands brought him from the sheen on sweat across his skin, and concentrated on cooling down. "What time is it?"

Sherlock shrugged lazily, bored with the question. "I'll hazard a guess at night time,"

John rolled his eyes, and nudged at Sherlock with his left knee. The already weak blow was somewhat softened further by the duvet that was wrapped haphazardly around him. Sherlock smirked slightly, but obliged and picked up John's phone from the bedside cabinet, checking the time on the screen. The light illuminated his face all the more, allowing John to see the odd expression on Sherlock's face. "It's twenty past four,"

"In the morning? Damn," John frowned under Sherlock's pleasantly cool hands. "Did I wake you?"

"Don't get yourself all worked up again, John, there's only a certain amount of time that I can touch burning flesh for and it won't help if you get yourself all hot and bothered." Sherlock reprimanded, like a concerned mother-hen. John had never seen him act like that before; concerned for another human being. It was...oddly nice.

Although it had only been a nightmare - he'd had them before - John did feel strangely warm despite Sherlock's touch. Nevertheless, a hit to his pride was a hit no matter the intent. "I'm _not_ hot and bothered and my flesh is _not_ burning." He told the detective sharply

The raised eyebrow and smallest quirking of Sherlock's mouth showed his amusement. "Then why are you clinging to my hand like it's your only oxygen supply?"

John had no answer.

"And to answer your question, no, you didn't wake me."

"You haven't been to sleep? Sherlock, how long has it been since you last slept?" John spoke quickly, a troubled fire in his face as he spoke fervently in his Doctor-Mode.

Sherlock concealed a small smile, contently smug in the knowledge he'd distracted the doctor. "Oh, sleep is boring," He rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock, as a doctor-"

"Before you begin the lecture, I'd like to point out that sleep isn't doing _you_ much good,"

A few beats of loaded silence, and then;

"...Good point,"

"Glad you think so,"

* * *

The body was found just before five.

Just as, across the city in 221b, John Watson decided that he wasn't getting back to sleep anytime soon, a lone cleaner headed through Scotland Yard. He whistling tunelessly as he passed through set after set of faux wood double doors, still blinking the remnants of sleep out of his tired eyes. He keyed in the code for the M.I.T offices, backing up into the room as he pulled his cart behind him.

He stopped dead as soon as he turned around, disinfectant falling from his hands as his mouth worked silently. A fine tremor ran through his frame, his knees threatening to collapse, before he turned and sprinted away from the room, not looking back for even a second.

The sound of his yells brought running footsteps from the early-arrivers. Yet the steps faltered as soon as eyes clamped on the sight that met them. Curses, mumbled expletives, even a few gasps, littered the air.

No-one recognised the man, he wasn't on any of the missing person's lists nor was he wanted for any crimes. He was completely unremarkable, as though he were about to blend into the background, but for his pained face; eyes squinted, mouth open in a silent scream. Even the most hardened of officers had to turn away at the sight.

In fact, the most remarkable thing about him, was the note nailed tightly to his forehead – the paper joined by enough blood for all to recognise that it had been screwed in prior to his death;

_You didn't really think I'd keep him around for long, did you, Sherlock?_

"Alright, get a move on! Everyone out!" Lestrade's powerful voice resounded through the silence as he cut between the stunned onlookers. While dressed, there were still certain aspects about the Detective Inspector's person that strongly suggested that he'd been rudely awakened and alerted about the body of the unidentified man only minutes ago; the slightest lining around the creases of his eyes and the barest tightening of his lips.

Lestrade paled, just enough that those who knew him well could tell, and gritted his teeth as he stared first at the unidentified body, and then at the sign.

"Call him in," He said briskly to no-one in particular. He didn't have to call Sherlock by name, everyone knew exactly who he meant. "Get this body taken to St Barts Morgue, and someone check the security camera. I want to know who he is, when he was left here and most importantly _how _he got in. _Quickly!_"

"God help you, Sherlock," He muttered to himself as he stepped into his office and began making calls.

* * *

Fingers steepled, a furrow in his brow, and his eyes burning with a fire that stirred discomfort in many of his companions, Sherlock painted an ominous picture. Ominous, for the fact that he didn't appear to have a single answer to any of the numerous questions Lestrade had bombarded him with since he'd entered the offices. And John knew that if Sherlock Holmes didn't have the answer, they had no hope.

"Well, he's proving he can get in, for a start," Sherlock finally murmured after forty-five _agonising_ minutes of silence in which John had been staring at a particularly odd shape on Lestrade's wall. "_And_," He swivelled his head around to fix John with an odd stare. "He must have known we were under that bridge, following his man,"

"That why he killed him?" John asked quietly, not feeling guilty in the slightest for causing the man's death. If he chose to help Moriarty, he'd signed his own death-warrant in John's mind.

Sherlock nodded absently, twisting back around to stare at his fingers and, beyond them, the note on Lestrade's desk. "He's proving to me that he doesn't need help. That he can work alone and still beat me," He spared John the most fleeting of glances, but John caught it before it disappeared. "But _why_? He already had your attention, taking Donovan assured that, why escalate again?" He obviously didn't expect any answers, and none were provided.

"Any identification on the body?" He asked Lestrade after a few more minutes of loaded silence.

Lestrade, looking grim, shook his head. "None. But 'Barts are examining dental records. They'll be in touch within the hour,"

"Is this round three?" John asked before Sherlock could lapse back into thought once more.

"No. He hasn't sent a text. No, this is just..._fear-mongering_. 'Look how intelligent I am, look how idiotic you all are. You'll never catch me'. That's all this is,"

"Well, it's very effective, isn't it?" Lestrade noted, crossing his arms across his chest uncomfortably. "My team's all terrified they're gonna be next to fall victim to this _game_ you're playing with a madman," A dangerous edge crept into Lestrade's voice, that John clearly recognised as a man loosing his patience.

Evidently Sherlock recognised it too because he looked up sharply at the older man, his eyes glinting terrifyingly as he stared at the man so hard that John was almost surprised Lestrade didn't crumble to pieces from the strength of Sherlock's gaze. However, Sherlock didn't bother to comment and retreated back into his thoughts.

Lestrade sighed loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose as he made obvious attempts to calm himself. He apparently succeeded, because when he next spoke his voice was just as close to normal as the situation would allow. "Do you need to see the body?"

Sherlock just shook his head, staring at an unremarkable spot on the far wall as his eyes were lost in thought.

"And I have Sergeant Donovan's account of her...ordeal," Lestrade almost seemed to choke on the final word as he lifted a thin red file from his top drawer and handed it to Sherlock who accepted it without so much as a murmur. "She woke up last night,"

"How is she?" John asked, knowing Sherlock wouldn't bother to ask.

"As well as can be expected," Lestrade shrugged, trying his best to look unaffected by the topic. "She's being released later today, insists on being back in work tomorrow,"

"Is that advisable?" John frowned, remembering the degree of Donovan's injuries. He knew the woman could be stubborn, but to this extent...? "She doesn't want to take any days off?"

"Her exact words were 'I'm not going home 'til that bastard is behind bars'," Lestrade gestured hopelessly. "I couldn't argue with her,"

John nodded, before turning back to Sherlock. "Anything helpful?"

"Barely," The disdain in Sherlock's voice was easy to distinguish, though neither John nor Lestrade were surprised by it. It was rare that Sherlock _wasn't_ scornful of anything to do with Scotland Yard. "But it _is _interesting,"

"What d'you mean?" John took a step closer to the man, leaning over his shoulder to read the small print. A few phrases jumped out at him but he ignored them, not really wanting to think about what Donovan went through. It was different when he knew the person...victim.

"He didn't tell her who he was," Sherlock glanced over his left shoulder, as though ensuring that John was listening. "Look, in all of the report she doesn't mention him by name. It's 'The man' or 'Him'. She never says Moriarty. That means something,"

"What does it mean?" Lestrade asked, as soon as it became apparent that Sherlock wouldn't be continuing any time soon.

"Absolutely no idea,"

John forced himself not to roll his eyes as he continued to scan the report for Moriarty's name, bracing himself against the back of Sherlock's chair to keep himself upright. As he looked, he would see that Sherlock, not surprisingly, was right – not a single mention of the madman's name. He backed away, not wanting to read anymore.

"But, I _can _tell you that the next victim will more than likely be another from your team,"

Lestrade almost choked at Sherlock's words. "What? How can yo-"

"Anything else would be a regression," Sherlock answered the Detective Inspector's question before he asked it. "It'd be an admission that he's bitten off more than he can chew. So, he'll stay where he is...or he'll go higher, go for someone I care about. Luckily, there aren't many of those,"

Lestrade sighed, somehow knowing that what he was about to offer the man would be a betrayal against his own team...but he knew that he needed Sherlock to stop Moriarty, needed to keep Sherlock on the case, if not to stop the madman then to keep his team safe in the long-run. And by offering this, he ensured that Sherlock would. "Who are they? I can offer a _minor_ police guard. A man and a gun, it's not much but..."

"Three," Sherlock cut him off, his fingers tapping together as he spoke. "There are only three people I care about," Sherlock didn't seem to realise how _depressing_ that admission would have been for anyone else. "Mycroft will be fine. He doesn't even get unwanted _telemarketers_, I doubt his security would let in someone like Moriarty,"

It was the closest Sherlock had ever come to admitting he cared about his brother, and somewhere inside John recognised that Sherlock had just realised how serious this could potentially be.

"Mrs Hudson _will_ need a guard," He said it with such determination, that it made John wonder exactly how much Sherlock cared for their lovely land-lady with the easy smile and the indulgent laugh. And how much it would really upset the man if anything were to happen to her. "She won't be hurt because of me,"

Lestrade nodded, looking more grim than he had when they'd arrived, and scribbled something on a nearby notepad. John caught sight of the words 221a Baker Street, but turned away. It made him feel almost physically sick to imagine sweet Mrs Hudson needing a guard.

"And the third?" John prompted, recognising that Sherlock had stopped speaking, and Sherlock slowly turned to him, staring at him in something John would liken to shock did he not think it was impossible for Sherlock Holmes to be shocked by anything.

Sherlock searched his face, looking for something other than the honest question in John's eyes, because surely John _knew_. He had to. But, no, he could find nothing more than honesty in the former-soldier's face. He looked back to Lestrade, feeling slightly lost, as though someone had pulled a rug out from under him – John sincerely _hadn't_ realised.

"John Watson," He told the D.I firmly, before forcing a smirk to his face to conceal his daze. He heard John choke behind him. "But I wouldn't worry about him. Best security available, he's got," He heard the light, breezy quality in his voice and wondered whether it sounded false to everyone else, too.

"I have?" John asked from behind him, sounding just as stunned as Sherlock felt.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock craned his neck back, so he was looking at John upside-down. That made it easier, somehow. "You've got me,"


	11. Hold My Breath 'Til My Heart Explodes

Author's Note: Hope every one had a good new year. My resolution is to finish the Epilogue on this fiction on which I am currently stuck :( Anyway, here is Chapter Eleven. And Moriarty's evilness is back in full force. There may be a small part in this which people may deem to be 'out of character' but the Sherlock and John in my mind wanted to act in this way. I think it's reasonable, so I apologise if you think otherwise. But there's some more introspective Sherlock for you and a close encounter between them. Maybe that'll make up for it. :) So, here it is. Please enjoy.

Chapter Eleven.

Hold My Breath 'Til My Heart Explodes.

At some point during the day, Sherlock wasn't sure how long it'd been, John had left the flat grumbling that he needed to do the shopping before they both starved. Sherlock had agreed, only for the fact that the idea of starving before he solved the case seemed quite unappealing to him. To that, John had huffed half-heartedly and left Sherlock in the emptiness of 221b Baker Street.

Now, the hours of silence drifted on, and the noise steadily drifted out, and eventually Sherlock was left alone to the sounds of his own breathing, his brow furrowed as he intently studied the words on the page, the book an inch away from his nose as he held it above his head.

He filled his eyes with the letters on the page, oblivious to all else. He was fervently, desperately, trying _not_ to think – a difficult task for one such as him. Actually, he didn't mind thinking, he was just avoiding thinking in the way that existed in the manic world beyond the borders of books and facts and _data, data, data._

Never had he been one for envy, but he found himself becoming increasingly jealous of the book in his hand; Books did not have to handle emotions. Books didn't have to handle the terrible anxiety that was gnawing at his stomach for every second John was out of his eyesight. Books didn't have the capacity to imagine the terrible scenarios that played in Sherlock's mind terrifying him so much that he barely managed to restrain himself from running out and dragging John back home, shopping or not.

In fact, before John Watson, Sherlock hadn't had to handle emotions either. The perks of being a sociopath. He never got worried, never got scared, never _cared_. Of course John had had to change that, make Sherlock more human. And damn him to hell for that, damn him for being such a good man that he made others want to be just as good, damn him for being a man who Sherlock wanted to be good _for_.

Oh, God, he wasn't even making sense anymore.

He sighed loudly through his nose, flipping another page without taking in a word of it. He'd passed the point of no return, he knew, he'd started to care for John, _was_ caring for John. He needed the other man in his life, and the worry growing from his stomach to clench around his heart was the product of that.

Books were lucky bastards.

A faint rustling hit the detective's ear, interrupting his brooding. His first thought was '_Do we have mice?_', which was closely followed by '_Well, wouldn't that just make the day complete_'. Then a floorboard squeaked, a muffled thump sounded, and a quiet oath hissed - That wasn't a mouse.

Sherlock breathed an unmistakable sigh of relief, before quickly covering it with an irritated expression. "Do you mind? I'm trying to read, you know," He barely looked at John as he clattered through the living-room, laden down with shopping bags and trying to shrug off his jacket, quite ungracefully.

"My sincerest apologies," Sounding anything _but _sincere, John finally managed to wrangle his way out of his jacket and set the bags in a haphazard pile by the kitchen door. "Tea?"

"Love some," He glanced up at John from the book in front of him, taking in his roommate's state. No additional cuts or bruises, no more rumpled clothing since he'd left the flat, not out of breath or limping. All seemed to be fine. He nodded, satisfied, and discarded his book as he headed out of the room and went to grab his violin. He'd abandoned it there last night, along with his laptop and almost everything else that could hold his interest.

He didn't stay in his room for too long, just long enough to collect a precarious pile of distractions. He never did remain there for any length of time. There was just too little to do within the empty confines of his room, as opposed to the cluttered wasteland of the living-room. There he had his experiments in the kitchen, his books scattered across the floor, and John there if he ever felt the need to converse. His room lacked personality, but the living room was so jam-packed with a personality – John's personality – that he was reluctant to leave.

So, his gentle lope quickening _ever-so _slightly, he whirled back into the room like a hurricane, scattering his toys across the room as he went; a laptop here, a violin there, a box of chemicals perched unceremoniously on the mantle-piece.

"Sherlock,"

"Hmmm?" He hummed his reply around a mouthful of papers as he re-arranged the mail that had piled up on top of the telly.

"Text," John was holding out a phone for him. His phone, coincidentally enough. _Not_, he noted, the pink phone. Sherlock wasn't sure whether he was disappointed or not, he had yet to figure it out.

"Who?" He asked, turning away to stab his dagger into the mail to secure it. It wouldn't be Moriarty, not on his BlackBerry.

"Lestrade,"

Now, _that_ was interesting. He halted, before spinning and snatching the phone from John's hands. He heard John mumble something about him being rude, but ignored it in lieu of checking what Lestrade had to say. The D.I wouldn't interrupt him for nothing...he hoped.

_Another body found. Meet us there._

Anticipation quavered through his body, an almost palpable vibration. Then he saw the address underneath Lestrade's message, and his chest felt as though it were tightening.

"What? What is it?" John asked, stepping closer to his to read the text. "There's another body, where...?" And Sherlock could hear the recognition in his voice, that sinking sound of horror.

"Are you..." Sherlock trailed off, his voice hanging in the air. He just wanted to say something, do something, that could get rid of that numb, blank look on John's face, but he didn't know how. He wasn't good with..._that_...kind of...thing.

"Yeah," John answered anyway, somehow grasping what Sherlock was trying to say when Sherlock didn't even know it himself.

"Right," Sherlock scrutinised John for several moments, trying to read the other man's face as he wavered between forcing John to stay at the flat, and taking John by the hand and never letting go. "Do you want to come?"

It was a loaded question, stuffed to bursting with ever meaning Sherlock could bury beneath the surface. And the silence that then grew after his words was so absolute it was almost a living breathing thing that enveloped them both. Their eyes met, both watching the other with the same kind of intensity usually reserved for Hollywood films and nothing else.

John hesitated a moment, his face blank and his eyes unblinking, before his expression eclipsed into the determined set of the soldier that John unmistakably was. "Yeah, course I'm coming," He muttered, almost stumbling away from Sherlock's side in a daze as he grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on.

Sherlock, nodding to himself, imitated him and they headed off to the latest crime scene - John's surgery.

Round three, indeed.

* * *

John felt like he was walking in sludge, as though each step his took closer to the police-tape and blaring sirens was a step further into quick-sand that was threatening to drown him. The only thing holding him above the surface was Sherlock's hand clasping firmly, yet unnoticeably, on his forearm. And he'd never been more grateful.

They ducked under the tape, heading for the door, and John caught sight of a huddling of orange blankets; His colleagues, people he knew and worked with, _trembling_ with fear at what they'd seen. It was a bizarre concoction of disjointed head movements, muffled conversations and, upon spotting him, looks with varying degrees of betrayal.

He would have felt sick, were it not for the glare he saw Sherlock send them in return.

"In my office," John nodded as he caught sight of the open door with Lestrade just inside. "Of course,"

Sherlock didn't say a thing, simply pulling him in after him. Then he faltered, because the corpse sitting in John's work-place, in John's office, in John's chair, was clearly, _painfully_, unmistakably, John Watson.

Short, stocky, with greying mousy hair cut military short, the body was propped up in the swivel chair John had vacated only yesterday. John couldn't see the colour of the man's eyes, but he would guess at them being blue – like his.

It was strange, John thought as he stood in the doorway, how..._detached_ he was in managing to survey this scene. He could see the jumper, nearly identical to the one he'd worn two days ago, and not feel his legs knock together like they had been only seconds before. The doctor side of his brain told him that he was in shock, but he ignored it, thankful for the fact that he wasn't breaking down yet.

But apparently, for the first time since John had met him, the same couldn't be said for Sherlock.

The man seemed to have frozen at John's side, his icy eyes clamped on the body with John's persona pasted over the top. But he wasn't sure whether Sherlock was really seeing anything of the scene before him but for the body.

However, the more John looked at the body, the less he could see similarities between them. The hair was, instead of the light brown that John had originally seen, was a dark blonde. The man was taller than him, too, and thinner. That helped, a little, identifying the differences.

But..._why_? Why would Moriarty – it had to be Moriarty, no-one else could be this sick – use John against Sherlock? Why was he making it much more personal, much more quickly? It had gone from a russian they'd never heard of, to a woman Sherlock hated, to a representation of Sherlock's only friend. Moriarty was twisted, he knew, but was he using John against Sherlock – in an attempt to make the man back away? Or was he making it more personal, in an attempt to make Sherlock fight back and get more interesting?

"Name?" Sherlock finally asked, his voice sharp enough to cut diamonds. John wondered whether he was the only one who heard the drop of an octave in Sherlock's voice. Probably. No-one paid as much attention to Sherlock as he did.

"Stanley Brocklehurst," Lestrade answered him, not looking at the almost ice-sculpture that Sherlock had managed to become in the half a minute they'd been in the room. "Went missing last week,"

Stanley Brocklehurst. Well, John supposed that was better. Better than...'James Worston', or 'Jack Waddell' or any other names that sounded vaguely John-Watson-ish. There was no possible way to link the name Stanley Brocklehurst to sound anything like John Watson.

But last week? _Damn_, how long had Moriarty been planning this move? John didn't want to think... And the message this time was clear, there was no need for a text. Neither John nor Sherlock were surprised when the pink phone remained silent.

Sherlock snapped into action, moving forward with a little too much speed for it to be mistaken for the disinterest that John knew he was intending to put across. And maybe he did do it well enough to fool the rest of the people around them, but John saw the way that his roommate didn't look at the victim's face again...

It felt like an eternity before they were back within the safety of their flat, the night staining the sky they could see through the windows, and Lestrade's orders to be at Scotland Yard first thing tomorrow ringing in their ears as they shrugged off jackets and stood in the living room. Neither were really sure what to do. Or at least, that was what John guessed – he could only speak for himself. But Sherlock still looked slightly shell-shocked.

It was at least five minutes before either of them moved, both standing in the dark and consumed with thoughts the other would never be privy to. In the end, it was Sherlock who broke their muted game of musical statues by falling onto the sofa and groping about beneath the leather, pulling out an unopened bottle of some green liquid. Tilting his head back, Sherlock then proceeded to throw the neck of the bottle into his mouth and gulped back hard.

"Here," He muttered, coughing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Drink,"

Taking the bottle and tilting his head to one side, John examined Sherlock's pale face and tried to determine what – if any – reasons Sherlock had for suddenly acting in such a manner. After a few seconds, he realised he wasn't going to see anything in Sherlock's expression and instead moved his gaze to the bottle he had clasped about the neck. He read the label, and again moved his now wide-eyed stare to Sherlock once more.

"_Absinthe_? You have _absinthe_ hidden under our sofa?"

"If you're not going to drink it, give it back," The grumble escaped Sherlock's lips as he slid off the sofa and onto the floor, propping himself up against the leather once more and unfolding his long legs to push the coffee table away to the centre of the room.

John was about to hand the bottle back, when a flash – almost like a photograph – of the fake John Watson flickered behind his eyes. One drink, he thought, pulling the liquid through his teeth and sinking down onto the sofa. He coughed as the alcohol scorched his throat, feeling his eyes water, but ignored it as the burning in his throat evolved into a glowing in his stomach that made him feel _so_ much better.

"That's what I thought," Sherlock's smug voice accompanied the slender hand that reached back for the bottle. The detective took another mouthful, his head leaning against John's knee as he moved with the bottle.

"You know," John spoke into the silence a few minutes of solid drinking later, taking another long drink and looking dangerously contemplative. "I think that the fake John Watson was actually better dressed than me. I quite liked his jumper,"

What John assumed was slightly hysterical laughter hissed out from between Sherlock's lips and the detective buried his face in the denim that covered John's right knee, shaking with giggles.

"Really?" Sherlock managed after about ten seconds of laughing, snatching the bottle back from John's outstretched hand and earning a '_hey_!'.

"Oh, yes." John nodded, sounding fully serious as he swiped for the bottle between Sherlock's teeth and missed. "Buy it me for Christmas, will you?" He asked, finally leaning too far forward for the bottle and ungracefully joining Sherlock on the floor. "_Ow_," He groaned, propping himself up and glaring lopsidedly at the floor as though it had personally offended him. He eventually gave up with the strange staring contest and slumped back, jostling Sherlock so much so that the younger man split a large majority of the green alcohol down his shirt.

"You're not getting _anything_ for Christmas," Sherlock fussed hazily, patting at the enlarging stain on his shirt. "You've ruined my shirt," His fingers came away sticky and slick, so he promptly wiped them down John's cheek, ignoring the drunken moan of disapproval from the other man.

"Deepest apol-apol- oh, sod it," John grinned happily, memories of John Watsons that weren't him and pink phones that brought only death blissfully floating away from him the more he drank of the absinthe.

He'd never considered himself a drinker, years of watching Harry slowly kill herself with alcohol had nearly put him right off the stuff, but tonight, here, with the threat of Moriarty looming over their heads like a pendulum blade, he thought he could make an exception.

Sherlock re-took the bottle again, clasping it between his fingers and leaning heavily on John's shoulder. His tongue darted out, almost involuntarily, and swiped around the lip of the bottle. He closed his eyes at the taste of something that was definitely _not_ absinthe, and one-hundred percent John.

The feeling of the taste on his tongue, and the heated body by his side was akin to having a 'kick me' sign on his back. He knew something was there, but he didn't know what it was. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that A plus B equaled C...he just didn't know what C was.

Before he could think anymore on the frankly quite dangerous subject and as sections of his brilliant mind became clouded with a mist of alcohol, he gulped back more and handed the bottle back to his roommate.

John's huge, slightly hazy eyes glowed up at Sherlock in the dim light, never breaking contact even as the ex-soldier took another hearty gulp from the rapidly depleting bottle. Sherlock was rarely drunk in John's presence, and the times that John was even aware of Sherlock's inebriation were all the fewer. But Sherlock had since learned that it was a dangerous position to be in. Especially when Sherlock's mind was already addled by worry for the other man. Add that to the jumbled thoughts the absinthe caused, _and_ the terribly distracting proximity of the other man, and Sherlock was well and truly screwed.

And with John's pupils dilated so…well, it must be from the drink and the dim light.

But he could almost imagine it wasn't from that at all. It was the imagining that was the most dangerous, sober or not. And right now, he was decidedly _not_, which made the temptation to lean in all the stronger...

"I don't want you to die," Sherlock mumbled quickly, before his drunken mind could lead him down more dangerous paths. And he spoke with a surprising amount of coherency for a man who'd consumed the amount of alcohol he had.

"I don't want me to die, either," John told him seriously.

"_No_," Sherlock stressed, because John didn't seem to have understood the importance of what he was saying. "I _really_ don't want you to die on me. You're the best decision I ever made," He felt his chest pang almost painfully, but he didn't show the discomfort he felt of it.

"Yeah?" At Sherlock's slow nod, a small, yet slightly too-wide, grin curved John's lips. "You, too,"

Sherlock could almost grasp what it was he was looking for, nearly see the kick-me sign, all but tickle the edges of his mind that told him what was going on inside him. But he wasn't there yet, so he settled for answering John with a simple, "Good,"


	12. Remember The Weight Of The World

Author's Note: Oh, wow, lots of you seemed to like the last chapter - it was the most reviewed one so far - so I this one can at least measure up to it. But seriously, thankyou so so much. Before the chapter, just a hint of Shameless Self-Promotion from me (But if you can't self-promote here, where can you?) If there are any Merlin fans who like my writing, I've just posted my first Merlin oneshot, so it's be great if you checked it out. Okay, sorry about that, and here is the next chapter. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter Twelve

Remember The Weight Of The World

It took a moment for John to realise that he definitely _wasn't_ in his own room. But, once he'd determined that the uncomfortable thing pressed against his back wasn't his mattress and was indeed the living room sofa, all he really wanted to do was find a comfier position and go back to sleep.

Unfortunately for him it appeared as though team of heavy footballers wearing studs were marching angrily through his brain and making his head pound, ensuring that it was damn near impossible for him to even think the word sleep, let alone attempt it.

Some of the previous night came back to him – small flashes – but they skittered out of his reach when he tried to grab them. So, after a moment of staring at the ceiling, he attempted to pull himself upright. Of course, that was when he noticed the warm, comfortable weight resting on his chest.

He looked down, his eyes blurred and fuzzy from last night's exploits...and blinked. Once, twice, a third time. Nope, he definitely wasn't imagining it. The heavy warmth laying upon his chest was a quite happily snoozing Sherlock Holmes. The detective groaned and tucked his face into John's shoulder, still sleeping, causing John's nose to become mildly assailed by the younger man's inky-black hair.

He couldn't remember how they'd become entwined together over night. Through his admittedly unreliable recollections, they'd been on opposite sides of the large sofa. How had this happened? He even had his fingers tangled through the soft black hair.

The light breaking it's way into the room was enough to light up the soft curves and slopes of the quietly slumbering detective. John looked, feeling quite unable to tear his eyes away. He couldn't help himself, he was fascinated by the man even at a distance and he was even more transfixed up close. Sherlock had such an untouchable air about him, that John was rarely this near to him.

Convincing himself that Sherlock would have definitely done the same thing in this position, probably already had, he took the opportunity to study the mysterious man. His marble-pale face free of the usual calculating fire that seemed to fuel him each day, Sherlock looked quite young curled up against John.

Sometimes John forgot and had to remind himself how young Sherlock really was. He wasn't sure entirely, and took guesses at around mid-twenties, but it was hard for him to remember. Especially when Sherlock had eyes so old, that had seen so much – much more than anyone else.

Sherlock had most definitely become the closest thing John had to a friend. John sighed at his own thoughts, he had a bad habit of being unable to name Sherlock. As though somewhere in his mind he was still a small child trying not to 'jinx' it. It was ridiculous, he knew, but his throat felt as though it were clogging up each time he tried.

As his mind wandered away from the odd predicament he was still stranded in, flickers of memory began playing like a film, looping around inside his head. A picture swept, unbidden to his mind – Sherlock seated on the sofa, knees tucked under his chin, looking up at him with that incredibly relaxed smile that John was seldom treated to. The memory was little more than an image, a flash like a photograph, but it sparked a whole other train of thought.

It was strange, he noted, how not uncomfortable he felt being in such a position with Sherlock. Maybe it was nothing but, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, _maybe it was something else._

They spent majority of their time together; watching terrible re-runs of _Jeremy Kyle_, arguing about the rent, making ridiculous bargains over choices in take-out versus who did the washing-up, racing up and down London after madmen. Aside from the occasional brush with death that they both seemed so fond of, they almost acted like they were a...

He really jolted awake then, his heart hammering as he sat bolt upright. Sherlock tumbled to the floor by the sofa beside him, waking up instantly upon impact with the wood. He groaned loudly into the cold surface and sat back on his haunches, shaking his head in disorientation as he stared groggily at John.

"Ow," He said pointedly, dragging a lazy hand through his hair in a fruitless attempt to tame the rumpled mop on his head.

John shrugged, sitting up. "Not my fault," He lied, standing and heading through to the kitchen. He rubbed his forehead gingerly and peered about the room. "Tea?"

"Yes, please. Did we fall asleep? Stupid question. Pretend I didn't ask that." Sherlock babbled, the stupor of sleep dulling his usually keen senses.

John laughed nervously, somewhat amused by the jabbering detective, as he clicked the kettle on. "Breakfast?"

Sherlock squinted against a wide shaft of sunlight that was leaking through the window, his eyes darting to the clock. "I wouldn't bother with breakfast. It's noon. We should probably head out for lunch." He flashed a grin at John as he stood and stretched, his back arching limberly, and John began to feel extremely uncomfortable.

Then the man almost seemed to snap back into position, his previous lazy grin now replaced by the sombre expression John would expect at a funeral or at the bedside of a grievously ill friend. "We're not going out," He then turned and headed back for the sofa, tucking himself into the corner and pulling a nearby book to his lap, as though this closed the matter.

John, baffled by this serious about-face, stared at the man. He couldn't have gotten the message any clearer even if Sherlock had barricaded the doors and windows shut, but the question was - "Why?" He flicked on the kettle. "You told Lestrade you'd be in to-"

"We're not going out," Each word seemed to be punctuated with an intense stare that John just couldn't figure out the meaning to.

But, considering that the only person more stubborn than him in the whole of London was staring at him through a rumpled mop of hair and an unrelenting gaze, he saw it would be pointless to argue. Evidently Sherlock saw his wordless consent and, satisfied, looked away with a subtle smile that John wasn't meant to see curving his mouth.

Maybe John wasn't going to know why Sherlock was acting this way, but he was willing to agree if it satisfied the other man. "You can text Lestrade. I'm not doing it,"

"Never asked you to," Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was already tapping religiously away on his phone. A flash of _something_ zinged into life across the detective's face, and John caught the tail-end of it before it dissolved without any trace that it had been there in the first place.

Shaking his head, he ignored it along with the feeling of uneasiness that accompanied it. "But you were about to," John imitated Sherlock's sing-song voice, earning a stifled chuckle from the detective. John's eyes appraised Sherlock for a few seconds as he set the completed mugs of tea on the coffee table, before he tutted in amusement. "Sherlock, get changed."

"Hmm?"

"Your shirt," John gestured to the large green stain that was still present on Sherlock's white shirt, courtesy of the gratuitous amounts of absinthe they'd consumed last night.

"Your fault," Sherlock accused him lightly, unfolding himself from the sofa. Again, that same flare of that undefinable _something_ flashed in Sherlock's eyes, and John just about caught sight of it before it disappeared once more along with Sherlock around the corner of the door-frame. He frowned, his spine feeling as though icy fingers were tracing along the vertebrae. Something felt...off.

But he ignored it, making his way to the bathroom to shower.

He sighed in relief as the hot water washed over him, washing away the sticky veneer that the alcohol had left over his mind. He scrubbed shampoo through his hair, trying to clear his mind enough to face another day of Moriarty. Because it would doubtless contain something even worse.

The memories of the faux John Watson flashed painfully before his eyes, like white-hot needles in his brain, and he rubbed harder at his eyes, attempting to cleanse the image away. John switched the shower off and simply stood under the still dripping head for a few minutes, trying to rewire his brain so as not to focus on his dead doppleganger.

He swallowed hard and made to re-dress in clean clothes, padding back into his room to find socks for his cold, bare feet.

It was just when he pulled one of his mismatched socks on, that he realised that it was much, much too quiet. He stood still in his room, listening for sounds of life. Clanking, tinkering, anything. He didn't know quite what to make of the silence.

His feet speeding up without his consent, John rounded the corner back into the kitchen, expecting to see the detective glaring at some object as if wondering how it could dare misbehave.

"Sherlock?" He called, not finding any evidence of his roommate in the apartment. The chilling feeling seemed to grow, wrapping around his chest like a clamp.

It was then that he noticed the shoes. Or, rather, lack thereof. Where Sherlock's shoes had been abandoned last night, side by side with his own, there was now only empty floor space. Heart hammering, he spun. The long coat that was previously thrown haphazardly over the chair, gone. The scarf that had been left to hang lopsided over John's laptop, gone. Sherlock...of course, _gone!_

He swore, loudly and in a way that would have ensured his mouth being scrubbed out with soap had his mother been around. But there was no-one to hear him. He repeated his oath, as though by repeating it and slamming his hands on the mantle-piece would do him good. In fact all he got as a result was pain in his hands and an even worse mood than before.

"You're an _idiot_, Sherlock Holmes," He muttered angrily to himself, gritting his teeth so hard that his gums began to ache. His hands were perfectly steady as he pulled out his phone and angrily punched in numbers. Sherlock didn't pick up.

_Where are you?_ - The letters of his text imprinted themselves behind his eyes, stinging him as painfully as if he had inked them onto his eyeballs himself.

Sherlock didn't text back.

* * *

The park had always been his place to think, and today Sherlock sought out its calming effects for certain things running through his mind. The weather, typical to the time of year, was chilly with the sun almost completely hidden by the drifting clusters of clouds. Sherlock wandered through the smattering of trees bordering the park, flumping himself down on a nearby bench beneath the shadow of a large tree in silence. He sat, his ankles crossed, his arms wrapped around his chest, and his gaze steadily drawn to clouds passing overhead, as if he was in a trance.

Sherlock Holmes was not, by any stretch of the most fanciful imagination, an idiot. He knew how to recognise a message when he saw one. And the faux John Watson was as clear a message as he'd ever seen - Moriarty had gone straight for the jugular and now, it was personal. How _dare_ he!

Before the flames of his not irrational anger could spark back into being, a body joined him on the bench a foot away.

"Any particular reason you chose a park bench to meet me?" Lestrade asked, a slight disgruntled edge to his gruff voice.

"Beautiful day?" Sherlock offered, not breaking his gaze from the grey clouds that were threatening rain later on. "You have information on the victim?" His throat clamped around the final word, but Lestrade didn't seem to notice.

As Lestrade shuffled a folder from his bag, Sherlock's phone chirped in his pocket and he pulled it out, a strange and unfamiliar feeling of guilt in his chest.

_Where are you?_

He slid the phone away, almost able to hear the betrayed voice that John would have spoken the words in. Forcing the guilt down, he accepted the files and flipped them open, his eyes trailing the text impatiently.

Stanley Brocklehurst. Aged 39. Unmarried. No children. He skipped past the profile of the victim, moving straight for the forensics report. He caught sight of Anderson's cramped signature, stifled a petty scoff, and continued reading.

No fingerprints found on body. No bruising on body, evidently body was moved post-mortem. Cause of death...hole burnt through centre of chest, straight through the heart.

Sherlock pulled out the photos of the autopsy, studying the curdled and blackened hole in Brocklehurst's torso. Before he could even _begin_ to consider the connotations of the wound, another gaudy bleep broke the silence. This time, however, it wasn't Sherlock's phone, nor the pink phone in his other pocket, but Lestrade's. Sherlock looked up for a second, then returned to the notes.

"What've you done?" Lestrade's voice cut in through the haze of analysis, fact and data.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, not taking his eyes off of the file.

"Text," Lestrade said by way of explanation. At Sherlock's silence, he elaborated. "From Watson. Asking whether you're with me," At that, Sherlock looked up again.

"When did he get your number?" The question slipped out before Sherlock could stop himself. He looked back down at the file, not seeing the words as he worked on concealing the emotions that kept betraying him.

"You found a partner, someone who'd be able to keep track of you. I wanted to keep in contact with him, since _you_ never answer my texts," Lestrade stashed his phone away. "So what did you d-"

"Is this all?" Sherlock cut him off before he could finish his sentence. He fixed Lestrade with an unblinking stare that told the detective that Sherlock wasn't going to say a word.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed at Sherlock, his penetrating gaze telling Sherlock without words _I know something is going on._

_Well, I'm glad you do – cause I've got no bloody clue_.

"Yes, nothing more. The body's in St Barts Morgue, if you're planning on taking a look," Lestrade told him, breaking the stare first and standing.

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly, tucking the folder into his side and staring back at the clouds once more. He heard Lestrade sigh heavily, his footsteps fade away, and Sherlock was left once again in silence.

He supposed he could head straight back to the flat, which was what he really wanted to do, and check that John was still safe and not roaming the streets of London searching for him. But he'd chosen the park for a reason, a place to think that didn't involve murders, pink phones and intense strings of thought that left him buzzing for days. No, thinking _here_ involved the feeling that of being balanced on the edge of a cliff without a visible bottom, longing to jump off but waiting for someone to push you - not a feeling he was used to, if he were being honest with himself. And he often was. What was the use in lying to yourself?

He was digressing, a habit he was trying not to slip into, so refocused his mind once more.

Sometimes he wished he could just stop. For a day, even just an hour. Just so that all of confusion that was clogging his brain would dissipate and he would know what to do. With Moriarty, with John, with everything. He felt so pathetic. There was so much going on in his life, that the confusion twisting around his mind about such trivial things felt ridiculous. But, try as he might, he couldn't control the convoluted paths of his loaded mind. So if his thoughts led him to John, he had no choice but to follow, he couldn't stop his thoughts from heading back in that direction.

If Sherlock thought for one minute that by leaving John behind would stop Moriarty from targeting him, he would disappear from the doctor's life without leaving a single trace. But Moriarty knew Sherlock's weakness, his only weakness. He'd use John against him even if Sherlock kept away.

But something that Sherlock definitely knew, was that John wasn't aware of how much he meant to Sherlock. And, consequently, of how much he could be used against him.

His phone buzzed again, jolting him out of his thoughts. He pulled it out with some trepidation, fearing another text from John, but was somewhat surprised to see his brother's number on the screen. He wasn't sure whether to ignore the text or not, this was his problem, his mystery. Not Mycroft's.

_Do you want me to protect John Watson? - MH_

His pale forehead wrinkled as he read the text, before he recalled Mycroft's man who'd been tailing them. That felt so long ago, though it had only been a few days earlier, before the whole business with Moriarty had started.

His hands tapped out a knee-jerk response.

_Just because my life is more interesting doesn't give you the right to snoop – SH_

Barely seconds passed before his phone buzzed again.

_Don't be childish – MH_

_More so than usual? - SH_

He could almost imagine his brother sighing that obnoxious sigh of his, twirling his stupid umbrella and rolling his eyes at Sherlock's immature '_shenanigans_'.

_I can keep you both safe - MH_

_I don't need your help – SH_

_Really? - MH_

Deciding not to dignify the final text with an answer, Sherlock buried the phone back in his pocket and folded his arms across his chest. He slumped back in the bench, staring at the clouds as his mind wandered back to the foreign emotion of guilt that had surged in his chest at John's text. He'd left the flat while John had been in the shower, a cowardly act, he had to admit. He could try and convince himself that he left then so that John couldn't follow him, wouldn't leave the house. But, while that was true, he'd also been afraid of seeing the betrayal in John's face.

Finally, he grasped his phone again and tapped in a short message to John.

_Stay in the flat, please - SH_


	13. Impossible To Hold

Author's Note: Hmm, okay. Well, yes, this is a new chapter. And on a Thursday, too! Okay, the thing is that I have now officially _finished_ this fiction. Epilogue and everything. And now I just really want to get it all posted. So I think I'll be posting on Thursdays and Sundays now. If that's fine by everyone *Smiles sheepishly*. Anyway, thankyou to all you amazing reviewers, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thankyou.

Chapter Thirteen.

Impossible To Hold.

Sherlock wasn't a man who hesitated. And yet he found himself unable to reach out and twist the door to 221b. Because he could hear the television blaring just behind the door, and an unrelenting tapping noise that he figured was John's feet. Irrational fear prodded it's way up the nodules of his spine as he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. What if he had pushed it too far? What if he'd left John behind for the last time?

Bracing himself for impact, he opened the door and trod unevenly into the dimly lit apartment, his footsteps indecisive as he let the door click softly shut behind him. The noise of the television had drowned out his entrance, and he could clearly make out John sitting facing away from him. Oh, he was angry. Sherlock could tell from the squared set of the other man's shoulders. The tapping noise was John's right leg, jumping up and down like a jackrabbit that couldn't keep the same rhythm twice.

"John?"

John froze at the sound of Sherlock's voice, his head whipping around so fast that Sherlock was actually surprised that he didn't give himself whiplash. John didn't speak, simply fixing Sherlock with a terrifyingly intense stare that was streaked with barely restrained anger and demanded explanation. And it scared Sherlock, it really did.

The strained silence filled up the room as John waited, the only sound their shallow breathing as Sherlock uncharacteristically scrambled for words that would justify him. He didn't think he could take another second of John's stare, and was inches away from turning away before John blinked and stared at the floor instead. Sherlock breathed a sigh, but whether it was one of relief or dread, he wasn't entirely sure.

"Why?" It was John's voice that broke the silence, shattering it so completely that the sounds of the world outside seemed to grow louder to compensate. "_Stay in the flat_? Why?" He switched off the T.V without looking at it, still focusing his gaze on the floor with such intensity that Sherlock half-expected smoke to rise from the carpet.

"Because this isn't a game anymore," Sherlock told him, his voice quiet enough that he saw John lean in infinitesimally to catch the words as they slipped free. The tips of his brown hair were still wet, a some small part of Sherlock's mind noted idly.

"And how long did it take you to work that out?" The anger had unleashed what little doubts and frustrations that had been building up inside John ever since Moriarty blasted his way into their lives. His words were bitten off, sharp, staccato and bitter. "When the first person died? When Donovan was taken? Or was it only when Moriarty started playing with _your things_?" His eyes were set like coals that could suddenly burst into fire.

"I don't want you to die," Sherlock said, ignoring John's jabs, his voice not quavering once. Because it was so hard to imagine John dead, when the man sat in front of him practically bubbling with life and energy he embodied, even if it were anger directed at him.

"Everyone dies, Sherlock!"

"Not you," Sherlock clamped his lips around the edges of his sharp words, clipping them tightly at the end. "Not now, and not because of me," _Definitely not because of me_.

This, Sherlock thought as John blinked at him in _almost_ concealed surprise and ran a weary hand tiredly through his hair, was what happened when an unstoppable force met an immovable object. Maybe they would never understand each other on these kind of things; on which one protected the other, or on whose life was worth less out of the two of them. But maybe that was what always drew them together in the end – the equal fascination and fierce protective instinct that one felt for the other.

Because it was those things that made them so different from each other and yet at the same time what made them alike, all caught up in dizzy seconds and moments that flared and flickered out like so much fire – dangerous, yet captivating and the hotter it burned, the harder he tried not to let go.

"You don't leave me behind again," John spoke evenly, the anger still lingering there in his voice but no longer about to explode and burn Sherlock to ashes. "I don't care if Moriarty is waiting outside the front door with a _gun_, you don't do it again,"

Sherlock looked away, unable to promise him any such thing.

Seeing this, John stood abruptly and strode those six steps across the room so that he could stand before the detective. His hands clutched at Sherlock's shoulders, so that Sherlock's avoiding eyes were forced to John's own pair. "Sherlock, promise me,"

But how could he? There were parts of man that were never seen, never _should_ be seen. Parts that no-one in their right minds thought about for more than few seconds...yet Sherlock thought about them all the time. And none of them had ever gotten him as scared as Moriarty had managed with a single dead body dressed as John Watson.

A dry smile bled onto John's mouth, not one hint of humour in the curve of his lips. "You know, normal people don't do this," He told Sherlock, realising with a stab of disappointment that Sherlock wasn't going to promise anything. He dropped his hands and shoved them deep into his pockets. "Normal people don't have to worry about these kind of things,"

"How dull," Sherlock responded, but the words felt heavy on his tongue as he spoke them.

John nodded grimly, although why he did Sherlock wasn't sure, before closing his eyes for a few seconds and heading away into the kitchen. Sherlock, certain that for now the storm had passed, made for the living room window, fully intending to do the thing he'd been dying to do since he'd entered the dingy off-license a few streets away.

The silhouette of the young consulting detective stood against the open window, the light from inside the flat making him look like nothing more than a shadow. He lent forward against the windowsill as his pale, spidery fingers groped inside one of the pockets in his coat, reappearing with a battered pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

A burst of flame from the lighter illuminated Sherlock's face as he placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it, shielding it from the wind. He took a thankful drag, slipping the cigarette between his fingers, the red glow clinging to his features as he inhaled. His lips parted in a sigh, a cloud of mingled smoke and misty breath, ensuring to expel the smoke through the open window and not into the room.

"I thought you'd quit," A voice from behind him made him turn, meeting the now softly concerned face of John as he re-entered the room, the anger from before now gone from his face.

Sherlock tapped the growing ashes away from the end of his cigarette, watching the glowing flecks of grey fall down to the concrete windowsill. "So did I," He rubbed a long hand over his face and turned his back on his roommate, inhaling again.

The warmth of John's body as he joined him by the window was comforting, reminding him that _this_ John Watson really was alive and here by his side. He could feel the familiar sense of addiction racing through his veins. Like fire consuming water, it made the slick insides of his veins charred. Addiction for the cigarette between his lips, addiction to the man standing next to him, addiction to the puzzles spiraling into play before him, it was all the same as out came his breath, there was a halt in his clarity, and his breath was smoke.

"Cup of tea?" John asked quietly into the rising silence, before pushing briskly away from the window and padding into the kitchen. Sherlock breathed in deeply, reveling in the sense of normalcy that the simple question brought. Before John, he'd barely have had to have heard the word 'normal' and he'd have been running in the opposite direction as fast as he could in search of his next crime. Damn the man for changing that.

"No thankyou," Sherlock kept his sight on the darkening city sky-line, pulling the cigarette through his teeth. Those damned nicotine patches could go to hell for all he cared.

He stared out of the window blindly, eyes glazing over as he tracked the scenery outside. His mind was almost a thousand miles away – and quite comfortably numb, which was right where he wanted it to be at the moment. He stood that way for some time, not moving, breathing quietly, eyes locked onto something only he could see.

The city was noisy, bustling and loud; a constant drone of sounds, whether it be taxis on the roads, heels clacking on the sidewalks or the heavy drumming noise that echoed from the factories hidden away from the tourist center. It had always been this way, an entirely mad chaotic...thing that just happened like some wanton force of nature. It was seedy, disgusting, and so open about the horrors that lay within that the honesty was overwhelmingly intense.

Sherlock had always gotten lost inside that city, but now it seemed like an almighty stranger. Moriarty lay somewhere in his city, and Sherlock had no way of finding him. He'd never felt so powerless.

"I'm staying, you know," John's voice murmured, close to his ear once again. Sherlock hadn't heard the other man arrive, but showed no outer sign of it as he flicked the spent cigarette away and pulled out another which he promptly lit. "I don't care what Moriarty does, I'm not planning on running. So if you were going to suggest it, forget it,"

"I wasn't," Sherlock assured him as he sucked on the end of his cigarette. He didn't mention that he'd seriously considered the option barely an hour ago. "Just the fact that you're alive would keep Moriarty coming after you. Doesn't matter whether you're here or miles away,"

John leant against Sherlock gently, drinking in the scent of Sherlock and cigarettes. To his immense surprise, Sherlock did not go rigid at the touch, or appear startled by the physical contact, as he was prone to doing; he instead relaxed slightly into it.

Sometimes, it felt to John not like Sherlock was afraid of being touched – because he'd never flinched when John'd stepped a bit closer, or their hands had brushed together by accident – rather that he was terrified of being let go. And, by John's reckoning, that was fine. Because he hadn't any intention of walking away. He just needed to make sure Sherlock knew that.

Sherlock sighed, drawing his attention back to the man. "Mycroft..." He trailed off, tapping one hand on the windowsill and taking another swift drag. John didn't speak, simply waiting with interest for him to continue. "Mycroft offered to keep you safe," He stopped, exhaling slowly so that the smoke spiraled above their heads.

It wasn't often that John could read Sherlock, in all honesty it was never, but he could hear the anger in Sherlock's voice as he admitted that he might not be enough to keep John safe. And it was easy for him to pick out the pain it took for Sherlock to acknowledge that someone else would be better suited for something like this.

He nudged Sherlock in the side softly, a small smile on his face as he did so. "Keep me safe?" He asked lightly. "I'd like to see him fight off Moriarty with that umbrella of his,"

It was almost a chuckle that escaped Sherlock's lips, yet not quite. But he spared John an amused glance, and John could see the appreciation in the look. He also caught the now-familiar dash of surprise in Sherlock's expression, the slight raising of Sherlock's eyebrows and the barest hint of widening around his blue eyes. It was tragic how often Sherlock looked that way, like he'd expected John to refuse him this time.

"Now, come away from that window and have something to drink at least. Or you'll catch your death of cold,"

"Yes, mother-hen," One corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted as he flicked the unsmoked half of his cigarette out of the window, watched it fall to the ground, and followed John back into the kitchen. "Wouldn't want to disappoint Moriarty, would we?"

"Don't joke about that," John's voice halted him in his smirk as easily as if the shorter man had doused him with icy water. John didn't turn back, just kept walking back into the kitchen, but Sherlock could see the suddenly rigid outline of his shoulders.

"Fine," He nodded, his brain murmuring a quiet 'sorry' that he'd never allow anyone to hear. He settled himself down into one of the kitchen chairs as John began searching the kitchen for the means to make cups of tea.

"Do you trust me, John?" He asked lightly as John set a steaming mug in front of him, his fingertips tracing the rim of the cup.

"I'd have to be insane," John replied, sitting opposite him and smiling to allow Sherlock to know he wasn't serious.

"Doesn't answer my question,"

"Well...trust you to do what?" John shrugged, taking a gulp of his drink and fixing Sherlock with a curious stare. "To water my plants, feed my cat? To kill for me, give your life for mine? There are different types of trust, Sherlock,"

"You'd trust me to water your plants?"

"God, no,"

That earned John a small chuckle from between Sherlock's lips, but he kept on his original point. "Would you trust me if I told you that I don't intend to die anytime soon?"

John seemed to think about this for a few seconds, gulping back a lot more of his tea as if he'd find the answer to the question at the bottom of his mug. "I'd trust that that's what you mean right now. But I wouldn't trust that your intentions might change,"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, awaiting explanation.

"I just mean, that you're a very, _very_, complex person. If you maybe saw a way to solve the case by risking your life, I don't doubt that you'd do so,"

"Hmm," Sherlock pressed one finger to his lips, looking deep in thought. "Interesting,"

"Interesting...how?"

Sherlock didn't answer, instead taking his first drink of his tea and posing a new question. "If I were to die, what would be different?"

John almost choked on his tea. Not at the question, you understand, he'd learnt to expect nothing less from Sherlock. But simply from the blasé and unconcerned way that Sherlock asked the question, staring at John as though his answer to this question could possibly be a mild cure to a spot of boredom. As though he _hadn't_ just asked an existential question most people only ask when lying upon their deathbeds.

But John had spent enough time around the strange man to build up some kind of shield against these types of things. "Life would be a lot more dull," He offered, his brain trying _not_ to picture the man before him dead.

"That doesn't surprise me," And John had to laugh at the arrogance in the man's voice.

"Does anything?" He quipped, raising his eyebrows in amusement.

"I take your point,"

They were silent from then on, for the most part. It wasn't until the hours of today began to slide into tomorrow, John decided that it _really_ was time for bed and he was on his way to the door with a huge yawn threatening to overtake his face, that Sherlock spoke again.

"John?"

"Hmm?" John mumbled sleepily, fighting to keep his eyelids open long enough.

"I'm not going to die, trust me,"

Whatever sleepiness that he had had, left as he smiled softly and nodded once. "Good,"


	14. The Urgency Of Now

Author's Note: Oh. Wow. The last chapter was the most reviewed so far, and this fiction has now passed the 100 review mark. So, for that, seriously from the bottom of my heart; Thankyou. I never expected it to get that many reviews. Okay, sorry about the distinct lack of Moriarty action in the last few chapters, and this is no different. But the next chapter, I promise, Moriarty's madness with be back. Anyway, here's chapter fourteen, and thankyou once again.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Urgency Of Now.

"There's a bullet in our wall,"

"Yes, nicely deduced, John,"

"A bullet. In our wall,"

"Again, sound in fact but you _are_ becoming somewhat repetitive,"

"You fired a _bullet_ into our living room wall?"

"No, I _threw_ it. Of course I fired it, John, how else would it have got there?"

"Surprisingly, that _wasn't_ the part of this I was questioning. Any...particular reason for shooting the wall?"

A shrug. "Nothing else to do,"

"Ah,"

Surely it wasn't healthy for conversations such as these to have become so normal that John merely brushed past them with only a few seconds of _what the hell?_ But, where a lesser man would have immediately packed his bags and been running for the front door, pyjamas and bed-head or not, John simply crossed the room from his position in the doorway and took the gun – _his_ gun, in fact, the thieving git - from Sherlock's hand and placed it on the bookshelf.

He turned back to the younger man, lying sprawled across the sofa and managing to hold an air of being in complete disarray despite his pressed suit and immaculate skin, and suppressed a sigh. "You do know that life would get a lot more exciting if we went _out_side," He told Sherlock, leaning against the over-crowded mantelpiece as he waited for his roommate's sure-to-be-interesting answer.

"I am aware of the fact, yes," Sherlock didn't look at him as he answered, instead choosing to mesh his fingers together behind his head and stare at the still slightly smoking bullet hole on the wall.

"...And yet you'd prefer to stay inside and shoot the wall? Well, I can see your logic there, I must say,"

"No need for sarcasm," Sherlock's eyes slid to John, a slightly amused glint in his blue eyes.

"Wrong. I find it immensely helpful, seeing as how I'm just as bored as you,"

"It's your gun, fire at will,"

"Well, we do have a rent to pay, remember,"

"...Your point?"

Resisting the strong urge to throw his hands up in the air, John settled for a simply heavy sigh through his nose. "I'm not staying cooped up in this flat _all _day, Sherlock,"

Sherlock didn't reply, still examining the wall with such a seemingly avid interest that John would have thought it was regaling him with the facts of the universe. Sherlock pulled out a lighter and his cigarettes once more, slotting one between his lips with practiced ease. It appeared that he had now entirely given up on the nicotine patches, but John wasn't going to question it. He could put up with the stench of the smoke if Sherlock needed it.

"If you act like he's won, he has," John muttered, half to himself, half to Sherlock, before sinking down into his armchair and fixing Sherlock with a stare that the younger man ignored. Sherlock still didn't answer him, replying with only a lingering puff of exhaled smoke.

"Fine, do what you like," John told him with the air of a well and truly irritated man giving up, before he left the room once more. Angry murmurs of _stubborn prat_ and _like talking to a brick wall _met Sherlock's ears before he heard John's door slam shut.

Sherlock breathed out slowly, the smoke from his cigarette mingling into odd clouds above his head and obscuring his vision, his eyes still trained on the bullet hole.

He had hoped that that had been the worst of it, hoped that John's fiery temper had been all used up because of his (Justified) outburst last night, and that soon enough John would be back in here with his cups of tea and jumpers, and be back to infecting Sherlock with his contagious grin as he accepted that Sherlock was right.

It was too much to hope for. Much too much. Sherlock knew that, because he decidedly _wasn't_ an idiot. And only an idiot would expect so little of Dr John Watson.

But, what he truly _hadn't _expected was to hear John's bedroom door open and close once more and John's distinctive footsteps that were definitely more heavy than those that had been leaving. Shoes. John was wearing shoes, which could only mean one thing.

"I'm off," John announced cheerily, though the words oozed with determination and generous helpings of sarcasm. "You can enjoy your day here, but I won't be a prisoner in my own home waiting for the next _bloody_ text,"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man, watching as he collected keys, phone and his wallet. _He wouldn't..._ Although, if he'd taken to cursing, it was a tell-tale sign that John was deadly serious.

He pulled on his jacket, finally meeting Sherlock's chilly glare. "Look, there's nothing to stop Moriarty from waltzing into this flat and killing me outright. It's just as dangerous here as it is out there,"

Sherlock didn't relent his glare, taking a small and perverse delight in seeing John squirm, however microscopically, under it. He knew, or at least some part of his brain had to reluctantly admit to the fact, that by not allowing John out of the house he was being a _tad_ overprotective. But Sherlock had never done this 'Overprotective' lark before. He'd never even been 'Protective' of anyone else before, not even himself. And, _God_, he was so consumed with that horrible and unfamiliar feeling of terror that told him if John walked out the house he might never see him again.

The thought made his throat clamp up, but he managed to do a remarkably good job of not allowing the ex-army doctor to see this.

"I'll take my gun,"

There was entirely too much of a mocking undercurrent in John's voice for Sherlock's liking.

Stubbing the cigarette out on an old copy of the Da Vinci Code (John's, not his, so it was doubly as satisfying), he lifted his gaze to the shorter man, and prepared to recite the list of reasons he had compiled examining exactly _how _it was a completely moronic idea, _why _John should stay in the flat, and exactly how many ways Sherlock had of stopping him. And none of the ways would John particularly like.

But, looking up at John through that dawdling haze of smoke, his blue eyes twinkling in amusement (Never mind that it was at Sherlock's expense) and a barely restrained smirk on his lips, Sherlock made the mistake of looking him straight in the eyes. Because there, beneath the amusement, was a silent pleading that Sherlock knew John would never have admitted to. And, upon seeing the quiet desperation for _something to do_ in John's eyes, a look similar to his own incurable restlessness, Sherlock managed to get himself completely tongue-tied and couldn't think of a single sensible thing to say.

Simply because he was John.

Damn him.

* * *

Hands dug petulantly in pockets, scowl firmly fixed in place, and a stubborn refusal to even speak more than single-syllables words to John, Sherlock found himself walking through the streets of London beside a decidedly less irate John. It hadn't taken that much more persuasion on John's behalf, simply because Sherlock had been going stir-crazy at just the _thought_ of staying inside. And he could never have kept it up anyway. Neither he nor John were ones to remain inside when there was excitement waiting on the doorstep – even if this excitement seemed to have no clear ending in sight, happy or unhappy.

And he did feel slightly better knowing that John's gun was tucked just inside the other man's jeans.

Steadfastly refusing to step foot in the express supermarket a few streets away – he wasn't that bored – Sherlock ended up deciding on their destination. John didn't seem to particularly care, he just appeared to be glad to be out of the flat. Sherlock couldn't exactly blame him, either.

Not bothering to read anything into his own thoughts – it only caused him unnecessary hassle - Sherlock chose the park.

They were silent for an lengthy amount of time once they'd silently decided on a patch of reasonably dry grass that was near the edge of the park and far enough away from the actual play-park that the screams of children wasn't an irritation. The silence was not an oddity between the two, each one just somewhat thankful to be out in open air and not to be feeling the encroaching sense of claustrophobia that one often did if left inside too long. And, as usual, it was Sherlock's voice that broke the quiet.

"I've noticed," He stated, with the same curious timbre to his voice he had when observing something particularly interesting. "That you wear a chain around your neck," He didn't look at John as he spoke, simply clasping his hands behind his head and watching the sky.

John, almost unconsciously, lifted a hand to the place where the aforementioned chain lay beneath his jumper, shifting his gaze sideways to look at his odd roommate. "Yes...?" It was more a question than an answer as gentle confusion laced his words.

Sherlock raised and dropped his shoulders, in an impressive display of nonchalance. "I was simply wondering why,"

"Why I wear it?" At Sherlock's nod, John glanced down and lifted the pendant from the confines of his sweater, holding the small charm at the end in his hand. "Surely you've deduced it by now?" He challenged, one eyebrow raised, though the good-natured jab fell flat as his mind wandered.

Sherlock's only response was a roll of the eyes.

"It was my mother's," John raised his eyes from the charm to answer, almost afraid to see Sherlock's expression – He knew what the man thought of sentiment.

But Sherlock's face was only that of mild curiosity, eventually tearing his sights away from the London skyline to look at John."And she gave it to you?"

"Before I left for Afghanistan, yes," John nodded, a veneer of sadness in his eyes as he remembered his late mother. "It's a crucifix. My mother was a very religious woman,"

"Do you believe in God?" Sherlock then asked him, looking away once more. Surprisingly, there was no mockery in his voice as he spoke, only the genuine inquisitive lilt that John so often heard.

"No, not really," John shrugged, hiding the necklace back in his clothing. "I envy those who _do _believe. Her faith always brought my mother such peace... But I've seen too much to believe in a benevolent God,"

"Yet you still wear it?"

"It's the last thing she gave me before she died. Eight months after I enlisted," John explained quietly, his hand still resting on his chest.

Thankfully, Sherlock didn't press him for further details regarding his mother. "Why _did_ you enlist? You've never said,"

At this, John's lips pulled up into an involuntary smile. "I was never one for 'normal' hospitals. Too quiet, not enough..." He struggled for the right word.

"Danger?" Sherlock provided, raising an amused eyebrow.

John laughed. "Precisely,"

They fell back into silence once more, Sherlock's curiosity sated and John's mind wandering freely as he relaxed further into the grass. He hadn't done that for quite a while, he realised – relaxed. And although now probably wasn't an appropriate time to be doing so, he wasn't about to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

He kept his hand resting on his chest, the other supporting his head, and felt the cross shape through the material again. There were few people who John had told about his mother - he could count them on one hand even if he were missing several fingers - and yet he'd just told Sherlock with a surprising ease that would have had his old therapist scribbling in her stupid notebook like crazy.

That had to mean something.

John slid his eyes from the oddly-shaped cloud he'd been idly watching float across the grey sky, to his left. Or, more specifically, to the man lying in an almost identical position to his, right down to the peeking eyes, to his left.

Sherlock had definitely changed in the past few weeks that John'd known him, since that first life-altering meeting. When John was positive – or as positive as he could be with Sherlock - that the other man wasn't watching him, he'd study him. The way he walked changed, his footsteps more at ease and less forced. His face gained more color, what little color Sherlock could get, his skin appearing creamier and less alabaster. However, the biggest change, John noted, was in his eyes. What used to be stormy and stone cold was now softer and less guarded.

At one time, It would have seemed strange to John, seeing Sherlock act so naturally, so human-like. But now, after seeing how much Sherlock had changed, John wasn't surprised in the slightest. Merely fascinated by the hypnotic man.

And they were so close, John noticed with a start. Faces barely more than a foot away from each other. Sherlock's knee brushing against his own. So close... and it felt so comfortable.

His stomach did a few somersaults without his consent. His senses seemed sharper than usual and unfocused at the same time, failing him everywhere else yet keyed into one certain spot. He was suddenly unable to see or hear any of the children that were jumping around the rest of the park, or the passing noise of the traffic just outside the wrought-iron gates. But he could feel the chill of the crisp spring air tickling the edges of his fingers, feel the blades of grass beneath him, smell the intoxicating fragrance of the man next to him. But most of all he could see those intense eyes staring at him, consuming him. He could hear the sound of his breath dragging in and out of his lungs, and the pounding blood in his ears.

He'd somehow, quite inexplicably, gotten so much closer. A feeble protest rose to his lips, but it died before he could even begin to move his mouth. He still hadn't moved away, and he was looking so deep into Sherlock's intense eyes which were saying something neither could fully understand that he didn't even want to blink.

And those eyes were so close to his own now. He could feel the other man's breath ghosting over his own skin. That was all he could feel. He could see Sherlock's eyelids close and open slowly, so slowly. That was all he could see.

A shrieking ring broke the spell.

Snapping upwards as though he'd touched a live wire, Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed it to his ear. Slamming his head back into the ground, John sighed and closed his eyes as he forced his breathing to calm and willed his heart not to slam out of his chest.

As he listened to the person on the other end of the phone, Sherlock said not a word and moved not a single muscle. He simply stared at the ground, letting the wind muss up his hair, as though frozen.

Catching his breath as it surged back into his lungs heavily, John shook his head minutely as though the small action would clear the haziness that was muffling every sense that wasn't keyed onto Sherlock. Sherlock, whose eyes were carefully blank and expressionless, spared a glance back at John that he was unable to decipher.

He hardly dared breath as Sherlock looked at him, his chest felt like it was suffocating him and at the same time giving him all the air he needed. Sherlock blinked, and averted his gaze as he spoke rapidly into the phone.

John's mouth opened just slightly into a small 'o' as he considered the strange closeness in this friendship, his mind working through images of recent days without his conscious instruction. Sherlock, his terrifyingly intelligent gaze cooled to show an edge of concern as he leant over John after his nightmares. Sherlock's muffled, drunk laughter as he seemed so entirely _human_. Sherlock's icy voice as he saw the pseudo John Watson. Sherlock, sprawled comfortably across John's chest and breathing gently on his neck. Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_!

Because somewhere in his mind, unbeknownst to him fully, he was wrapping his head around the enigma that was Sherlock and was figuring out what the riddle that was their relationship, their odd yet wonderful connection, was saying…

For a started, star-struck moment – the world spun, nothing of it registering as his sights landed upon it. But then Sherlock turned back to him, hanging up the phone, the intensity of his gaze cooled now to a subtle glint in his now excited eyes that John wouldn't have caught had he not been looking for it.

He barely heard Sherlock's voice, and it took him a few seconds to realise that Sherlock had leapt to his feet and began walking for the gate. Because only one word was spiraling through his mind, twisting and turning as it fell.

Oh.


	15. Unfamiliar Territory

Author's Note: Wow, this chapter was very, _very_, hard to write. Surprisingly, I found it a lot easier to write from the point of view of Sherlock, than that of John. But I really hope that it seems enough in character to be convincing. Heh. Anyway, here's chapter fifteen. There's a lot of prolonged introspection, but Moriarty's ba-ack! Hope you enjoy.

Chapter Fifteen.

Unfamiliar Territory.

John hadn't _quite_ been able to meet Sherlock's eyes for the rest of the afternoon, hadn't said even more than a few sparse spatterings of words to the man. Because, really, what could he have said? What would have been appropriate after being hit with such a realisation? Nothing was. John was sure. And, believe him, he'd _tried_.

But their lack of conversation may also have been due to the fact that Sherlock had headed immediately for St Barts' Mortuary and had managed to not shut up babbling and deducing his way into almost incoherency for the entirety of the afternoon.

Something John had been thankful for, he needed to think and not talk.

Surprise, John had decided, had become less surprising ever since he'd met Sherlock Holmes in that lab at Barts. Every second day or so there was some shock to the system, or a new fiery jolt of adrenaline that set John's nerves alight with bubbling excitement. In fact, the word 'Surprising' had already begun to lose it's meaning after just a few weeks.

So, John had to say he was more 'Caught Unaware' than 'Surprised' whenever the sensation attacked him once more. And, more often than it, it was still Sherlock's fault that he's caught unaware. And he most _definitely_ blamed Sherlock now. Well, maybe that wasn't right. It could possibly be construed as being partially John's fault, too.

John lay in his bed that night, listening to the howling rain that had picked up a few hours ago as though to truly echo his thoughts. But as much as he tried to sleep, stopping the whirring mechanics of his mind was an impossible task. Because thoughts, loud and buzzing as hornets in his mind, kept flashing and exploding in his head like violent fireworks.

Unfamiliar territory. That was what he was subconsciously labelling all of this as, because _this_ - whatever it was - wasn't something he was familiar with.

But it dawned on him that it still didn't really bother him. Not in the slightest. As 'unfamiliar' as it was, these thoughts stirred in him that same odd feeling that had been plaguing him lately. Not an unpleasant feeling, just...different.

He was comfortable with Sherlock, something he doubted anyone else could truthfully say. The fact alone should be disconcerting, considering how little time they had know each other. But in the few weeks since meeting, John knew that he and Sherlock had created that couldn't be replicated. Something entirely mad, chaotic and unbreakable.

Because some things were _meant_ to be imperfect and chaotic. And Sherlock was the sum total of every eccentric adjective from A to Z whirled up into one mesmerising man the likes of which John had only seen in epic novels. To John, Sherlock was a walking library, a mish-mashed quilt of every intelligent and arrogant protagonist sewn together. He was like a book John could and _would_ easily read until the pages became dog-eared and torn, until the spine became skewed with use, until the binding began to fray and unravel.

Sherlock was fascinating to John, and John knew that he made no secret of thinking so.

But Sherlock had to see something in John, too. Otherwise, John would just be a simple roommate who chipped in with the rent every month. Instead, the pair of them spent much of their time together. Granted, most of it was throwing friendly jabs back and forth, examining bodies and engaging psychopaths, and generally just running up and down London every night. But those things were the kind of things that bound you together.

And it felt _right_, like Sherlock should have always been there, and that something vital had been missing from his life beforehand.

The only thing that he wasn't sure about were his exact feelings about Sherlock.

Okay, that was a lie. An obvious lie that wouldn't fool even a five-year-old.

And yet John was positive that he _wasn't_ gay. Didn't Sarah and his list of other ex-_girl_friends prove that? But maybe the fact that he wanted to get _much_ better acquainted with his intoxicating roommate was probably more reliable than what he told himself. And, if John were being honest with himself, those covert glances at Sherlock from the corner of his eye probably held a lot more attraction than he'd previously allowed himself to realise.

So...what did that mean? Was it just Sherlock? He was..._confused _would be the word of choice there, but that didn't answer any of his questions.

He was attracted to another man. Fact.

Not just any man. Sherlock. Fact.

Which, despite his already close relationship with the man, was probably about as sane as him stepping out into the streets of London with a large sign about his neck saying '_Moriarty, Come And Get Me_!'. Fact.

He also didn't care about that. Fact.

It was so confusing yet so clear at the same time that it made his head spin. But it was also _so_ bloody inappropriate. It was inappropriate to even be _thinking_ about this kind of thing right now when there were so many more important things to be thinking about right now. Like how there was a raging psychopath in London who seemed intent on playing terrifying and dangerous mind-games with them.

But this, _this_ was real, this was here, and this was now, and it was tangling up both his emotions and his thoughts in equal parts.

He didn't know what to call this, but he was quite certain that 'epiphany' was far too grand and refined a word for something that left him feeling quite idiotic for not figuring it all out earlier.

Especially when it was so _bloody_ obvious!

* * *

Outside, the storm to end all storms raged. Wind wailed and threw buckets of rain at the windows, causing the glass to rattle. Thunder rolled over the sky, flashes of lightening following at even intervals.

Inside 221b Baker Street, the atmosphere didn't prove to be any calmer.

Sherlock paced from one end of the room to the other. Agitated, frustrated, and his being filled with an intense longing, he growled and clenched his fist. Sure, he'd promised John he'd go to sleep, but now – especially now – he just couldn't. So many things were bouncing around in his head. So many things had changed in the such a short frame of time, and they kept changing by the minute, it seemed. He was so far out of his usual frame of reference that there was no way he could possibly make sense of it all.

He was irritated with himself more than anything else, but it didn't stop him blaming everything from woolly jumpers to mugs of tea and all the other damn things that had led to _this_!

Because the penny had most definitely dropped.

The question was now not how he felt about John. Simply thinking about him made the answer _painfully _and _embarrassingly_ obvious. It was a feeling that he hadn't wanted to put to words. Giving it voice would make it all too real, too undeniable. But he knew what it was.

No, the question was what to do about it.

He knew what he _wanted _to do about it. And if he was not mistaken, and he fervently hoped that he was not, John wanted the same thing. While examining his memories of their time together, he was not merely admiring the way John looked, which, incidentally, was a constant and rather enjoyable distraction; rather, he had been attempting to discern his feelings. When he successfully maintained his focus, Sherlock found several signs that John felt the same way.

John's smile was a small indicator. Sherlock couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before, but the man smiled differently for him. He'd seen John amongst other people, at Scotland Yard or with Mrs Hudson. John smiled quietly almost the whole time he was with them, but whenever the ex-army-medic turned to look at him, his gentle smile became that little bit brighter, and a small dimple formed on his left cheek.

Also, once or twice, Sherlock'd also caught his roommate surreptitiously watching him with admiring eyes whenever he walked through a room which had left Sherlock feeling quite smug. But he'd previously thought nothing of it, John was prone to the occasional awed comment so the looks had seemed to be a part of that. But maybe, now that he thought about it, there could be more to it. Though he doubted that John had even realised what he'd been doing.

Then his mind came to rest on a memory that compressed his chest with a fizzling burning; the interrupted moment of peace in the park. John had been so close, so close that he'd been able to feel the warmth of the other man's body. Barely aware that he was doing so, Sherlock had found himself leaning in to kiss him, something he had never anticipated himself ever doing. Of course, Lestrade had interrupted, but what mattered _most _was remembering that John had leaned towards him too - he had wanted the kiss. Sherlock had never been kissed before, seeing it to be a pointless exercise and never finding someone worth it – yet he'd wanted to kiss John.

Sherlock found himself reveling in the memory, and had to shake himself out of it to concentrate.

However, despite these somewhat encouraging signs, some doubt still lingered in the young detective's brilliant mind. What if he had misread the situation, and John did _not_ feel the same way? Social cues were not where he excelled, per se. What if he had just been caught up in the undeniable tension of the situation? What if he wanted nothing to do with him? John _still_ hadn't looked him in the eye yet!

Sherlock understood his relationship track record was pretty abysmal. Or non-existent, to choose a more appropriate adjective. Relationships, platonic or otherwise, had never been Sherlock's forté. He'd been at odds with his brother, a disappointment to his parents, an annoyance to his college dorm-mates, a freak to the police force... all in all, he wasn't successful with such things. He'd always kept people at arms length, or rather, people kept _him_ at arms length, and he'd never truly cared either way. But his friendship with John was the one relationship he had managed not to screw up.

It was so strange, though, how much their friendship seemed to just _work_. How it seemed like they'd been friends for years. Wherever Sherlock's extensive knowledge had a gap, John seemed able to fill it. It was as if their different life experiences and knowledge complemented each other's; they were stronger together than separately. Sherlock had to admit it, they made a good team together.

He relied heavily on John, he was his best friend and only confidante. Sherlock knew that he wasn't the easiest person to live with; he was moody, silent for days on end, regularly insulting and morbidly curious about every little detail. Anyone else would have cleared off within hours of meeting Sherlock, but not John Watson. He was still here, unintentionally fixing him little by little. Piecing together bits of smiles and chunks of happiness until they formed something like a coherent whole. If he were to lose John in his life...he doubted anything would be able to fill the void that would be left by his absence.

For once, he now felt like someone was really watching out for him, taking care of him. He couldn't even put to words how much he appreciated the feeling, so he hadn't said so. But he hoped that John knew.

He sighed, scrubbing an agitated hand through his hair. He wanted more from his relationship with John, but he was terrified of losing what they already had. Was it worth the risk?

He dropped down onto the sofa, sighed and turned onto his side, fingers picking at a loose thread on his blue dressing-gown. As various arguing thoughts ran through his head, he twisted restlessly and his left leg jittered.

Sometimes he wished he didn't have to think. At least, not in the way that didn't stay in the safety of facts. Thinking through this, through this phenomenon with John that his brain was handing him, was frustrating and terrifying and, God, just so bloody confusing! But at least it was thinking. He stood, tugging his hands through his hair as he moved about the room.

Because at the moment he _couldn't_ think. Not coherently enough. Everything was moving too fast, or too slowly – he couldn't figure out which. Too fast in the way that every thought about John was firing into his skull, and _too slow_ in the way that everything with Moriarty was sluggish, slow and dragging,

He began to pace. No, in fact, 'paced' was far too calm a verb for whatever the hell it was he was doing. He almost seemed to flit about the room in some indefinable pattern, alternating his points of turning at every single re-pace across the room. His hands twitched by his side and his eyes darted about the room, as though by moving every single part of his body he could give himself the illusion of _doing something_!

He _hated_ this! Give him problems, give him work, give him _anything_, but his mind rebelled against this…this utter stagnation he'd been reduced to. Without a lead to go on or a puzzle to solve, all he could do was wait…and wait…and _wait!_

Maybe that was Moriarty's plan. Because if he took away the puzzle, took away the one way that Sherlock could fight back, he'd automatically gain the upper hand. Sherlock was entirely at his mercy and there was nothing he could do about it!

Moriarty could read him well, knew what made him tick and what aggravated him. Sherlock disliked this notion immensely, but took comfort and a hell-lot of smug satisfaction from the fact that as each day went by he understood Moriarty that much better too.

And something just didn't add up.

He'd returned his thoughts to the corpse of Stanley Brocklehurst, the faux John Watson, the message he'd been trying to avoid like an ostrich with it's head in the sand. _But that was the point_; Moriarty had hit him where it hurt, made him look away and not want to dig into this body in the slightest. So he'd returned to Brocklehurst in the hopes that this was the next round of Moriarty's game…And it didn't fit.

Moriarty was a sadist. A psychopathic murderer who took a perverse pleasure in the cruelty of hurting as many people as possible. He'd taken the Russian primarily to get Sherlock's attention, but just the mere thought of her family and fans mourning her death must have had Moriarty _buzzing_. And Donovan. He took Donovan right from under the nose of Scotland Yard itself. All of the London Police Force had been in a state of sheer panic. That would have sent Moriarty into nothing short of a euphoric frenzy.

But Brocklehurst? The file had said 'Single, unmarried'. But it was easy to doctor a document. And, true, there had been no ring on his finger nor a trace of one having been removed on the body as he'd inspected it at Barts. But Moriarty wouldn't have taken someone who would have gone so unnoticed. Okay, so the body had been left to hurt Sherlock and John, but all the same…

It just didn't fit!

Mind whirring, Sherlock ceased his frenetic pacing and sat violently before his laptop, hurriedly tapping at the keys. He hacked into the Scotland Yard mainframe with practiced ease and headed straight for the database. Luckily, Stanley Brocklehurst wasn't a common name in any sense. And of the two options, it was easy to deduce which one he needed.

As he clicked, a small yet triumphant smile threatened to dance across his lips but he restrained it as he scrolled down the page.

_Name: Stanley Brocklehurst_

_Age: Thirty-Nine_

Yes, Yes, he knew all of that. He scrolled further, his eyes highlighting every piece of information he deemed necessary until finally he landed upon the dead man's address.

"John, we're going out!"

* * *

"Yes, I can see _precisely_ why you pulled me out of bed at two in the morning now," John muttered under his breath as the two men stood in front of a block of flats. "Standing outside, at night, in the middle of winter. Much better than sleeping,"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, deciding to treat the comment with about as much dignity as it deserved, and bounded up the steps to the small intercom. He trailed his index finger down the list of names until he reached Brocklehurst. Floor Four.

Ignoring John's still sleepy grumbles, he jumped back down the steps and headed to the side of the building in search of the fire-escape he'd spotted earlier, John following behind and getting more and more alert with every second. He counted the floors as he bounded up the metal stairs; One, Two, Three, _Four!_

"Excellent security system, I must say," He commented lightly as he and John easily prised open the window on the fourth floor and slid inside. The window stuck for a few seconds on the way up - no one had used it recently.

"You've said it yourself; No-one expects them to come through the window," John shrugged, looking around himself. "Why are we here?"

"Brocklehurst's flat," Sherlock muttered, his eyes moving across the room and taking in every inch of it to draw up some form of a conclusive profile of this faux John Watson – Police Files were never detailed enough.

As his gaze moved to the mantle place, his mind connected the dots in an split second because of what he saw there. His hand clutched around the edge of a battered photo-frame, sweeping it up from its place. There were _two _men in that photograph. That Stanley Brocklehurst, who thankfully looked a lot less John Watson-ish in his usual persona, and a tall blonde man by his side. They were no-where near similar-looking enough to be related, that left friend or…partner. Partner was the more likely choice, there were photos of him everywhere. He set the photo back, and continued his search.

Mail. He crossed the room. No mail near the front-door, he headed to the kitchen – next logical place. And, sure enough, there was a small pile of opened mail sitting on the still-set dinner table. So something had interrupted a meal. Interesting. He scooped up the mail and flicked through it. Stanley Brocklehurst,..S. Brocklehurst…Dear Occupant… _oh! Oh, excellent!_ Three letters in quick succession all addressed to someone named Michael Warwicks. Identity of the man in the photo, had to be.

So, where was he?

And why was there no mention of him _anywhere_ in relation to Stanley Brocklehurst?

Facts, what were they? Brocklehurst had been reported last seen at his work – a real-estate agents right across the city. Warwicks…_had_ been at home after Brocklehurst's abduction – clear from the shoes abandoned in a hurry (_Or a panic_) that were caked in mud that was at least a week old. And the shoes hadn't been moved since so...Warwicks hadn't taken them with him when he'd left again. And there was no way a man would leave his shoes unless he was running from something...Or was taken. Taken, definitely taken, Moriarty wouldn't have given any warning. And it had to be Moriarty.

There was no sign of forced entry, so Warwick had been eating dinner when the doorbell had rang. Sherlock followed the path back from the kitchen to the front door. Warwicks had opened the door and seen..._oh! _A small package was lying neatly on a small table by the door. Warwicks had opened the door to a man with a package. Oh, _elegant_! People open doors freely to men with packages for them.

Sherlock picked it up. It was neat, the edges sealed with an almost obsessive tidiness. And, scrawled across it in marker pen, were the words; _For the attention of Sherlock Holmes_.

He turned to call John over, but the man was already standing just by his shoulder. Ignoring the brief warm sensation that tingled the merest tips of his fingers, Sherlock gestured minutely with the package, displaying the words written on it.

"Same handwriting,"

John's murmur was more to himself than Sherlock, but Sherlock still hummed quietly in response before he undid the box. There, lying inside, was something he hadn't expected. A small nondescript memory stick lay on the cardboard, and Sherlock eyed it cautiously for a few seconds.

Why would he be left a memory stick? Moriarty hadn't been exactly forthcoming with information thus far, so why? And why now? Was he straying away from the path, and Moriarty was trying to lead him back? Or was he getting closer and Moriarty was _rewarding_ him for his efforts? It was so infuriating, maddeningly annoying, and there were too many pathways for Moriarty to take that Sherlock felt like he was simply running through this with his eyes closed. Even when his mind connected the dots and the flood of endorphins that came with slotting in another puzzle piece, he still felt like he'd been thrown off of a cliff.

He _hated_ it! Hated everything about this! And he even hated the amount of times his brain was telling him he hated this! Because a few months ago (Hell, not a few months ago. Since John, really) he would have been revelling in every single second of this game. He wouldn't have given a second thought to any of this. He'd have dived in immediately and hang the consequences.

But he _had_ changed. Or, rather, someone had changed him. And he knew he should have been much more angry about the fact that he'd been changed, but he couldn't quite bring himself to be.

_But_…though he'd never admit it to John (It'd probably come under the category of; Not Good. And he didn't like the looks John gave him in those moments), he was still _fascinated_ by Moriarty. This psychotic genius was toying with their minds, pulling them about like puppets on strings, and managing to not leave a single trace that he didn't want Sherlock to follow.

"A memory stick?" John's voice slipped into his stream of consciousness, the only voice that could probably have managed it, and Sherlock blinked back into reality.

"A prize," Sherlock nodded, more to himself than anything else. It had to be a prize – he doubted that Moriarty was the charitable type to help a struggling man. _Highly_ doubted it.

"So you're on the right track?" John let go of the breath he'd been holding, and took a step closer to Sherlock as if to take a look at the memory stick himself. Then, like he'd been hit with an electric shock, John stepped back until there was a definite gap between him and Sherlock. Sherlock nearly frowned, but kept his expression smooth – John was acting…oddly.

He shook his head, clearing it, and focused back on the memory stick for a few more seconds before collecting it up and slipping it into his pocket.

Almost as though the move had been choreographed, as his slim fingers brushed against the pink phone a gaudy bleep rang out into the silence. Sherlock stiffened, feeling John freeze behind him as well, and pulled the phone out into the open.

_Well done, my little detective, you've found my gift. Just a little something from me to you. Have you figured it out yet? I'll be waiting._


	16. Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Author's Note: Wow, a lot of response for the last chapter. Thankyou all so very much, it makes me smile so much whenever I check my phone and there's a new Email.

And, sorry, but to 'Zahara Spilka' who I can't reply to in any other way because you reviewed annoymously. I'm really pleased that you liked my Twilight Series, but I'm not going to be posting the next one. I just can't write it. I'm sorry, but I just don't enjoy writing about Twilight anymore. And another thing, I'm sorry but I really don't think that you should be asking me to write it when reviewing another fiction. Reviews to this one should be about this fiction, and really nothing else. Sorry, but that is just the way I feel and I would ask you to respect my wishes.

Back to the rest of you. This chapter was written really out of time. I wrote the ending first, and then the beginning, and then the middle, and then more of the beginning. _Anyway_, it was really bizarre. But I'm really pleased with it, and Moriarty's evil is..._really _back in this one. Okay, so I've rambled enough and here is the sixteenth chapter, I really, really, hope you enjoy and feedback would be brilliant. Thankyou.

Chapter Sixteen

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Sherlock spun the memory-stick dexterously in his slender fingers, his eyes moving along every curve of the black plastic as though it could reveal everything to him if he just stared hard enough. Then, sighing in irritation at his own idiotic thoughts, he slid it back into his coat pocket and took to staring out of the window of the black cab they were currently seated in. Or, rather, keeping his eyes on John's distorted reflection.

The silence they'd comfortably struck up, each lost in thought, surprisingly was broken by John rather than Sherlock this time. John had clearly been vacillating between remaining silent and saying whatever it was that was on his mind for several minutes now - Sherlock had seen him opening and closing his mouth in the window - but he didn't let on as John spoke.

"You said something, I can't remember when, about you not being the only one who gets bored,"

Sherlock nodded, unable to figure out where John was going with this.

"But then you also said about how Moriarty was 'psychotic'…" John trailed off again, looking contemplative, and Sherlock idly wondered exactly _how _rude it'd be to tell John to just spit it out. Deciding that it wouldn't be worth it, he remained silent, allowing John to follow his convoluted train of thought.

"And then you said that this wasn't a game anymore…but it was a game to begin with-" He snapped his mouth shut, and sent a sheepish look to Sherlock. "I'm rambling, aren't I?" He took Sherlock's raised eyebrow as an affirmative and looked about ready to shut up entirely, but when Sherlock sent him a silent look along the lines of _Tell me_, he nodded and continued. "Exactly how similar do you think you are to Moriarty?"

Sherlock blinked. And blinked again. "Why?"

John rubbed at the back of his neck in slight discomfort under Sherlock's scrutinising stare, but carried on. "Well, ever since this started, Moriarty's been alluding…" His speech faded away for a few seconds, and he closed his eyes momentarily. Sherlock studied the action with great interest, quite perplexed as to what John was trying to say. "…Been alluding that he thinks you two would be perfect for each other," There was something indefinable running like an undercurrent in John's voice, but Sherlock pushed it to the back of his mind as he considered John's words.

John was right, of course. All of Moriarty's texts had been addressed in the same way; _My Little Detective_. As though Sherlock were a possession of his, an idea that Sherlock firmly rejected. And the texts were friendly as well. More than that, they were _familiar_.

But how similar were they…? Very. They were both brilliant. He had to admit that, even though Moriarty was deranged, he admired the absolute genius of the psychopath. And they both got bored. Although they obviously expressed this in different ways; Sherlock by _simply_ commandeering any dangerous weapon to hand and attacking furniture, while Moriarty sated his boredom by luring people to their painful and too early ends. They were so similar they even both preferred to text!

"I suppose we _are _similar," Sherlock nodded to himself, answering John's question. "_Very_ similar, in fact," He caught sight of John shaking his head in his peripheral vision. "Don't you think so?"

"Not at all," John shook his head firmly one last time and looked down at his shoes.

"Explain," Sherlock tilted his head to one side in a gesture of genuine curiosity. The faintest tinge of pinkish hue was spreading across the barest edges of John's ears. Embarrassment…? Interesting. But the firm set of John's shoulder was also a clear indicator of the man's determination. Whatever John had to say was certainly going to be… fascinating.

"Okay, admittedly, there are possible similarities. And I'm sure you already have some list of them. But there are more differences than there are similarities,"

"...Such as...?"

John swallowed, sighing through his nose, and finally turned to look at Sherlock. "Well, for starters, you're a detective. _Consulting_ detective, then," He said quickly when Sherlock made to correct him. John spared him an eye roll before continuing. "But that's all about solving crimes not committing them,"

Sherlock, again, opened his mouth to interject, but John spoke over him once more. "And, yes, I know you mainly do it to stop the boredom, solve the puzzle, or whatever...But I also know that you could be entirely capable of turning to crime to stave your boredom. But you don't,"

Sherlock made to speak then closed his mouth again, considering John's words. He couldn't really explain why he'd never joined the criminal classes. Because John was right, he was more than capable of committing a crime and not leaving anything to suggest that it was he who'd done it. But he never had. He'd never even considered it, not even on his most bored of days.

"Because you're a good man," John was continuing, his words more confident the more he progressed through his strengthening train of thought. And, Sherlock noted, that the peculiar behaviour John'd been exhibiting since Sherlock has swept into his bedroom and declared they were leaving had entirely dissipated. "And you're better than Moriarty,"

John seemed to nod to himself, effectively silencing himself and ending the conversation. And Sherlock lost whatever words he had. Because this, _this_, was new. Was different. He'd known that John thought highly of him, almost as highly as he thought of John, but 'Good'...that wasn't anything he'd ever expected.

He knew that, if anyone were to describe him, the word 'Good' wouldn't even enter their minds. Arrogant, certainly. Mad, almost definitely. But 'Good'? That was a word reserved for, well, for men like John. War-Heroes, Doctors...people who were _worth_ something. Not him.

And yet John thought he was good. _Him_. Sherlock Holmes, the man who everyone gave an emotionally wide berth for fear of getting hurt. No-one had ever _approved_ of him before, and he'd never cared either way. But _John thought he was good_. Just thinking those words caused his chest to swell and his stomach to drop.

He shook his head, closing his eyes as tightly as he could. He heard John shift beside him, and assumed that the other man was watching him in confusion, but kept his eyes closed. He breathed in through his nose, deep and slow, trying to clear his mind that was buzzing in his ears with far too many different thought paths.

Well, not clear his mind. To clear his mind was to end all thoughts, and he couldn't afford to do that now. Later, maybe, but now he needed to be focused…and thinking about John wasn't helping in the slightest.

So he kept his eyes closed, and moved his thoughts to safer locations.

The first thing that re-caught Sherlock's attention was the cabbie swearing loudly. His eyes flickered open at the noise, and as he did so caught sight of blaring flashes of neon blue light and crowds of people standing outside 221 Baker Street. Not just crowds of people – Police.

"What's going on?" John murmured as the taxi stopped, blocked from going any further down the street by the crowd.

Sherlock just shook his head, leaping out of the cab and heading down the street, leaving John to hand the irate cabbie a twenty and follow him. A uniformed police-officer tried to stop him from passing the police tape that had been strung around the place, but Sherlock simply ignored her and ducked under it. He heard John quickly explain that they lived there, and soon his roommate re-joined him.

What he saw made his heart stop for a chilling second. There, wrapped in an orange shock blanket and a terrified expression on her face, sat Mrs Hudson shivering on the steps to 221 with Lestrade standing next to her. Sherlock nearly faltered, but he could see that she was free of injuries. John sucked in a harsh breath by his side, and he spared the man a glance before moving quickly to their landlady.

"Mrs Hudson…?" He asked, making the kindly lady look up from her unfocused staring at the pavement.

"Oh, Sherlock," She cried as soon as he stopped by her, traces of tear-tracks on her cheeks, jumping up and catching him in a fierce hug around the waist. He didn't move away, allowing her to clutch desperately at his coat. "I saw…and…and I thought…" Her words were taken over by a sob and she buried her face in the material of his coat. He placed an arm around her - _What had happened to her?_

Lestrade coughed, drawing Sherlock's attention back to him. "She went into your apartment-"

"I heard noises." Mrs Hudson interjected, straightening up and wiping the tears from her face, before she stepped away again. Sherlock felt a great surge of pride run through him at the display of strength. "I thought it was you wrecking the place again," He allowed her a small smile, which she returned tentatively.

"What about your police guard?" John demanded, a glare cutting fiercely through Lestrade. Sherlock imitated him. Why hadn't she had someone with her?

"I didn't want to wake him," She shook her head, tightening the blanket around her. "I just thought it was you two. I didn't know…didn't expect-" She cut herself off, taking a deep, calming breath, and instead looked to Lestrade to explain for her.

"There's a body. In your apartment," Lestrade spoke, his voice riddled with disgust and looking as though the words left a bad taste in his mouth. "It's…it's sick, Sherlock. Really sick. Take a look,"

He nodded once and headed for the door, pushing past the forensics team and various officers that were lurking on the stairs and barely halting to throw his coat over the banister. He heard Lestrade apologise to Mrs Hudson and follow him. He didn't have to check to see if John was.

At first glance, their living room looked just as it had when Lestrade's keen 'drug-busting' squad were tearing the place apart, complete with a stubborn-faced Donovan and a glaring Anderson. But, once his mind catalogued everything, Sherlock saw the glaring difference.

Well, that explained where Michael Warwicks was.

But Lestrade was wrong. 'Sick' didn't even begin to describe it. Sherlock forced back the very human instinct of gagging and, with practised ease, switched off everything but his mind.

The first thing he registered was the almost complete absence of blood. And, while logic screamed that a body that broken should have been surrounded in a lake of gore, he wasn't surprised. Moriarty wouldn't like getting messy. But it was eerie how much care had been taken in it – Sherlock'd never seen a body so clean outside of St Bart's morgue. But instead of being laid out, calm as the sleeping faces Molly took so much pride in, the body was slumped carelessly across Sherlock's sofa like a disjointed puppet left where it fell when the strings were cut.

Warwicks was dressed impeccably – slim cut two-piece, purple sit, no tie. And Sherlock's mind understood the symbolism, connecting the dots easily. Because Sherlock was wearing the exact same clothes. This was the pseudo Sherlock Holmes to the false John Watson.

But the thing that stuck out most, the thing that churned his gut and made John suck in a sharp breath by his side, was what was slathered above his head and across the wallpaper. There, in the darkened colour that only dried blood held, was the words _Home is where the heart is._

Jumping past the sickening feeling in his stomach, his mind attempted to make some link. The words had obviously been written by someone left-handed – the same as the handwriting on the letter and the packages – but what could that mean? Home is where the heart is?

_Home is where the heart is…_

_Home sweet home… _No, far too simple.

_There's no place like home…_ More likely, but still…

'Home', what's 'home'? And 'the heart'…? Without his permission, his eyes slid left and fell on the tense stature of his roommate. _Focus!_ The heart, the heart, the heart…? Oh, this was hurting his head.

"What's that in his hand?" John murmured by his side, pulling him out of his furious thoughts. He blinked, and followed John's line of sight to Michael Warwicks outstretched left hand. There was something black clutched between the slender pale fingers.

John took a step forward, ignoring the half-hearted reprimand from one of the forensics team, and took a closer look. His head blocked Sherlock's view, so that when he leapt away Sherlock had absolutely no idea why. "Oh, Christ. It's his heart. Sherlock, it's his _heart_,"

His heart. The words rang dead in Sherlock's mind. His heart.

As John stepped back to his side, Sherlock moved forward, their arms brushing as they passed each other. John was right, it was Warwick's heart. And the blackened exterior of it led him to only one conclusion; it had been burnt. He moved his hands to the shirt and undid the top three buttons. He closed his eyes for a second, before turning back to John to show his findings.

"Burnt?" John swallowed the word in disgust, a V forming in the space between his eyebrows.

"Burnt out of his chest," Sherlock confirmed, gesturing to the corroded hole in the centre of the dead man's chest.

"_Jesus_,"

Sherlock stepped away again, allowing the pathologist to take his place, and returned to John's side, checking the other man's face for confirmation that he was alright. John must have understood the unasked question, because he caught Sherlock's eye and nodded once stiffly.

Unbidden, the words of Moriarty's latest text swirled around his mind's eye. _Have you figured it out yet?_

The memory-stick.

Leaving John's side, and ignoring Lestrade's question of what he was doing, he crossed to his still-on laptop and slid the memory-stick into the USB, tapping his fingers as it loaded. He felt John join him, but didn't move his eyes from the screen.

There was only one item. A video.

He and John shared a loaded glance, both hoping that their worst fears weren't about to be confirmed. But, of course, when it came to Moriarty, hope did nothing.

The video rolled on blackness for a few seconds before the screen was filled with the cold back-drop of some non-descript warehouse. Sherlock could have probably identified it if he tried hard enough, but his attention was focused on the figure tied to a chair in the middle of the screen. Warwicks.

Warwicks raised his head, blinking as though he were coming out of unconsciousness, and wincing as his movements pulled the ropes tighter against him. He looked around himself in disorientation, before his eyes grew large and panicked. He made a shocked noise, between a gasp and a whimper, and jerked in his seat in an instinctive attempt to loosen his bonds.

Sherlock heard Lestrade curse from somewhere to the left of him, and made to quieten him. But then the video continued and D.I clamped his mouth shut with an almost audible snap.

"Don't struggle, Michael," The voice from behind the camera was thickly Irish, Dublin if Sherlock had to guess, and was distinctly teasing, laughter bubbling just beneath the surface. "I won't get a good picture," The voice broke into an actual laugh at that, like a diseased babbling brook.

"Who are you?" Warwicks asked, jerking again in his seat, eyes straight on the camera so that Sherlock could see the honest-to-god terror in his blue eyes. "What are doing?"

"Always the same arbitrary questions," The voice, Moriarty obviously, sounded almost disappointed. "_Who are you…What you doing…Why me…Why won't you let me go_… Boring. _I_ have something much more exciting,"

Movements sounded behind the fixed camera and soon enough a suited back moved into the frame. Sherlock held his breath – his first glimpse of Moriarty…But Moriarty didn't face the camera, leaving Sherlock, John and Lestrade with a view the psychopath's hands clutching of a knife and…and a blowtorch.

John reached out and pressed '_pause_' violently, and the look he sent Sherlock held no room for argument – not that Sherlock was about to. But John's gaze didn't break after a few seconds like before, instead he kept his eyes on Sherlock's as if searching for something in their depths. Sherlock didn't know what he was looking for, but John eventually looked away with an unreadable expression on his face. Not disappointed or angry, just…unreadable.

How annoying!

Shaking his head to clear it, he stood from his half-bent position and walked back to survey the body of Warwicks again.

He probably should have been expecting it. In hindsight, he _really_ should have. But it still sent a shock through his veins, ice in his mind and nausea in his stomach when, as he looked once more at the message slathered on the wall, that the phone in his pocket buzzed.

Setting it to _silent_ had been a good idea, he thought, as he pulled it from his pocket and eyed the words _One New Message_ with some trepidation. No-one had noticed it, all too unable to look away from the horror of their living room.

_Are you stuck, my little detective? It's sad, how useless you are without your precious puzzles. Do you need a hint? I think you do. Come and find me._

_The park. Five minutes. I'll be waiting…_

Hmm.

He slid the phone away, mind whirring at his usual jackrabbit speed far and away from the police swarming through his home, the message smeared on the wall, and the body slumped in his armchair. He leant back against the wall, his face set in thought and his eyes trained on the body. To an outsider, he would have simply been analyzing the body on his chair, but in reality his thoughts were replaying the words of the text over and over and over again in his mind, like a perverted and disturbing loop of radio song that he was unable to be rid of.

If he wanted to catch Moriarty, beat him, he _had_ to stop underestimating his opponent's capabilities and his capacity for violence. He'd seen a first glimpse of it within the corpse of the faux John Watson, but now he'd caught more than a glimpse, much more. Sherlock needed to think like Moriarty to catch him, think like him and then think _better_ than him. _Be_ better than him!

Because no matter what John told him, he and Moriarty were scarily similar. Two sides of the same coin; One to promote crime, one to prevent it…

But there _w__ere_ differences. Large, gaping differences that not even an idiot could miss. _But, _a small voice inside him whispered,_ they're only recent developments, aren't they?_ A few weeks ago he'd been almost identical to Moriarty, but now a whole stream of differences had worked their way into his life. And all of them revolved around the man who was now watching him from across the room.

"Sherlock?"

Their eyes met, and Sherlock nodded almost infinitesimally towards the door leading to the hallway outside their flat. Not waiting to see John's reply, he moved silently from the room. No-one saw him leave, all too drawn in by the morbid curiosity of Moriarty's cruelty, and only John followed.

He'd never done this before, never told anyone where he was going or what he was doing – they'd figure it out in the end. But he had to tell John, had to let him know, because John deserved more than that.

Before the first question could even leave John's lips, Sherlock handed him the pink phone. He kept his eyes on John's face as it twisted into a mingling concoction of dread, revulsion and a smidgen of fear he'd never mention seeing to the doctor.

He could tell the second that John had reached the final sentence, because the man's eyes snapped to his with a flash of horrified realization resonating through the blue depths.

"You can't"

Sherlock closed his eyes for a brief moment at the sound of John's voice, fear and rigid determination leaking into every syllable. "I need to know the next clue,"

John shook his head, like he was denying even the existence of the next clue. "You don't,"

"_Yes,_" Sherlock breathed, the intensity of his words making John swallow. "I do. Look at how easily he got in here. What if next time it's Mrs Hudson? Or…" He trailed off, not needing to explain to John who else he was worried for, John had to know by now.

John nodded once, as though steeling himself, and his shoulders set as he remained in silence. The soldier realising that his friend had to go to battle. "Take my gun," He spoke quietly, and Sherlock heard the resignation. It sent a chill right through him.

Sherlock shook his head, reaching out a hand to stop John reaching for the gun in his waistband. "He won't kill me,"

"_He's a psychopath_,"

Nodding, Sherlock amended his sentence. "He won't kill me, _yet_,"

John closed his eyes, looking for all the world as though someone had just slipped a knife into his chest. And Sherlock took those few seconds to drink in every inch of John's face. Because he knew, and John did too, that these were all just words. And Moriarty could kill him whenever he liked.

They both remained silent, staring at each other as Sherlock pulled on his coat, his scarf and gloves. All of their joking, their pretense and banter were gone now, faded away until all that was left were two men connected at a level that neither truly understood. Words wouldn't mean anything now. They both knew what could be about to happen, and a perfectly heartbreaking understanding passed between them. Sherlock felt his chest surge and implode at the same time.

It wasn't until he'd forced himself to open the door and head out onto the street outside that John managed to speak again.

"But, Sherlock," John spoke, his hand clutching at the door-frame like a life-line as he stared after the detective, his voice sounding younger than he'd ever heard it. "Sherlock, you might die. And you promised me, _promised me_, that you wouldn't,"

And Sherlock, the unstoppable storm, a man so unmovable that the London Police Force jumped out of his way, froze in his place as though chained to the pavement. His shoulders slumped, his head bowed and he looked like a puppet with his strings cut.

How do you logically walk away from someone? From the man you…the man you... the man you would do anything for? And who would do anything for you in return? How do you do it without killing him? Without killing yourself?

Sherlock knew that if he spoke, he wouldn't be able to resist. He'd turn back, join John back in the safety of their home and work out a way to get Moriarty some other way. He knew he was just desperately pretending that this wouldn't hurt, that it wouldn't be long before he was back, and that it was all for the best. But he had to leave, had to find the missing puzzle piece, had to, just had to...leave John behind.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself. No, he had to say this. He'd been feeling it stronger and stronger, and if he didn't say it now, he might never get the chance. Most importantly, he felt ready to admit it to himself, which was almost harder than admitting it to John. Now was the time.

But the words wouldn't come. His throat clogged, and his chest swelled so much that any hope of speaking that he had was lost. He couldn't make the words that were screaming in his head fall to his tongue! Because saying these words made it clear that he was saying goodbye…

So, with frightening purposefulness and speed, he turned on his heel, crossed the few metres of concrete towards John, placed both hands behind his head, and pressed his lips to John's in urgent despair. John's eyes flew open for a second in shock, before he allowed them to flicker closed, as the pressure of his best friend's lips against his own increased with desperation.

All John could feel was the electricity surging down his spine, the silk of the lips against his, the clenching of his chest as they rocked together. The reality of what was happening bubbled to the surface of his mind, _Sherlock is kissing you._ But it was tinged with longing and heart-wrenching sadness that made his chest feel painfully full yet terrifyingly empty at the same time. And what he would give to hang onto this moment forever, he would sell his soul to make it happen. To never let Sherlock go, to never allow him to leave.

It wasn't the moment, wasn't the time, it wasn't right, wasn't nice or sweet or _romantic_ (but then, John thought, they'd never been nor ever would be any of those things) and it was so bloody _clichéd_ that Sherlock would kiss him now, before a life threatening situation. But, then again, it wasn't like they knew any other kind of situation. And it wasn't exactly like John cared as he grasped to get impossibly closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled an inch away, breaking their embrace. Their eyes still closed, the cold London wind tugging at Sherlock's coat which wrapped around John's legs, and their breath falling heavy on the other's lips as they stood together _so_ close. Sherlock slid his hands away from the curve of John's neck, and John uncurled his fingers from the front of Sherlock's coat. Their hands slid together, clasping for less than a few seconds. John's hands were big and rough and callused from the months in Afghanistan, and Sherlock's were small and white and untouched, save for a few scars that John was pretty sure he could name by incident, but somehow they fit together like two parts of a jigsaw, beautiful and whole.

Then, Sherlock spoke, his voice low, soft, and canorous - the voice always in the shell of his ear. "John," He said his name the way he'd always said his name, the way only he could say it, and it still made John's heart skip a beat.

And then Sherlock was gone, the heat of his body missing, the whisper of his voice hanging in the air.

John didn't know what to do. Didn't know how to think, move...he barely even knew how to breathe anymore. All he could do was stand and stare at the place in the air before him where Sherlock had stood seconds - or it could have been minutes, hours, or days - ago.

Then reality crash-landed about him, startling him back into movement as he turned and raced back up the stairs.

"Lestrade!"


	17. Puppet Master

Author's Note: Um, wow, loads of reviews for the last chapter. I guess you all liked that one, huh? It was a difficult kiss to write, but I feel much better about how I did thanks to your reviews. Also, a lot of people commented on the cliffhangers...sorry, guys, it's not getting any better. I think I've got cliffhangers for the next few chapter...oops, sorry. Anyway, hope you like this one. Moriarty's here, and there's a little glimpse into his (rather twisted) mind. Here it is, the seventeenth chapter, hope you enjoy.

Chapter Seventeen

Puppet Master

Everything looks different at night. Even the most innocent of things take on a shade of the sinister when the light disappears behind the horizon. The same thing could be said for the park in which Sherlock now stood.

The rolling greens seemed almost purple in the half-light that the city brought to night-time. The pathways looked silvery, like tracks made of only the most dangerous of weapons. The children's play-park, usually harmless, looked mechanically menacing.

Sherlock paid no mind to his faux-threatening surroundings. His situation was dangerous enough without his mind painting even worse scenarios for him. He needed to package everything away, bundle it back to the furthest corners of his mind and focus on this with his usual detached nature. He needed to be analytical, calculating...what he _didn't _need was for the fear to be bubbling up in his veins like acid, eroding his judgment and his sense.

He needed, needed, _needed_, to set aside the bloody Caring thing that was humming inside him along the beat of his heart. _John, John, John_... This Caring lark was going to kill them. Passion, Sherlock knew, could inflame a man to greatness. But if the flame burnt too hot it could destroy common sense. And Sherlock couldn't take that risk.

He shook his head, hoping the action would clear away at least a few of the conflicting thought-lines in his mind, and continued his scanning of the darkened park. He wasn't expecting Moriarty in the person, but something had to happen. Something had to be _different_ this time. Otherwise Moriarty wouldn't have deviated from his pattern.

A vibration from his left pocket sent chilling fingers to trace along his veins. Because that was the pocket with the pink phone in. And it definitely wasn't a text. A phone-call? _Interesting_...

He grabbed at the phone harshly, tugged it free from his pocket. '_Withheld' _hovered on the screen, and it was as though every tiny black letter were stabbing deep inside his chest – and each one was enjoying it, too.

"_Hello, Sexy,_" The voice was soft, lilting in his ear as static crackled beneath the words. Moriarty sounded..._harmless_. An illusion Sherlock wasn't going to fall for.

"What do you want?"

Moriarty tutted lightly. "_Come, now. Don't be rude, Sherlock, it's not attractive,_"

"_What_ do you want?"

An exasperated sigh, much like someone teaching complex arithmetic to a toddler. "_Such impoliteness. I guess it's true what they say about meeting your heroes..._"

Sherlock kept half an eye on his surroundings, ensuring that Moriarty's silken voice didn't distract him from whatever was surely about to happen. "Yes, I've heard you're a fan of my work,"

There was no-one in sight, no shadows in the distance, no cars pulling to a stop. Nothing was out of the ordinary but for Sherlock himself, standing in a park and having a conversation with a mad-man.

"_Your work?_" Moriarty chuckled, the sound like oil spilling. "_No, no, Sherlock, you have me all wrong. It's not simply your _work _that I admire,_"

"Is that so?"

"_Quite,_"

Sherlock bit back a snarl, irritation at the lack of clues and irritation at the sickeningly conversational tone of Moriarty. "Where are you?"

"_Really?_" Moriarty snickered down the phone. "_You really thought that I'd end our little game so easily? I'm having so much fun, aren't you?_"

"Not really, no,"

"_Don't lie to me, Sherlock. I can tell when you're lying,_" Almost like an admonishing parent, Moriarty _tsk_ed into the speaker.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How nice for you,"

A small laugh. "_Isn't it?_"

"What do you want?" Sherlock repeated the question, not at all expecting a reply. He doubted he'd get an answer until Moriarty decided it was time.

"_Ah, ah, ah. That would be telling, wouldn't it?_"

"I see. And is that against the _rules_?"

"_You catch on quick, Sherlock_,"

"Those were four wasted words,"

"_And so arrogant, aswell. A man after my own heart_," His voice was almost a sigh, teasing Sherlock with it's elusive quality.

"And yet, you seem to be the one following me," Maybe it wasn't wise to antagonise Moriarty, but anything to stop him feeling like a puppet in a sick pantomime made Sherlock feel better.

But Moriarty didn't seem in the least offended. In fact, he laughed. "_You're the one who came to meet me in an empty park. At night. Alone,_"

"And you're playing hard to get?"

"_Fun, isn't it?_" Another short giggle of sorts, a mocking parody of humour. "_But, you're wrong, Sherlock. Well, you're right _and_ wrong_,"

"Do tell,"

"_You're right in the respect that yes, I _have_ been following you. Every move you've made for the past eight months has been on my radar. Not a word has gone unrecorded, nor an action not documented_,"

"I'm flattered,"

"_No, you're not_," Moriarty almost sang the words down the phone, childlike delight in his toxic voice.

"But how am I wrong?"

Moriarty paused. The paused stretched into a silence in which Sherlock's heart beat into double-time. "_I'm not playing hard to get_," Shuffling sounded, as though Moriarty were jiggling the phone. Then heavy breathing, harsh and rasping, slithered down the phone. Sherlock listened in confusion – was this the next clue? Moriarty's voice returned. "_The breathing of the unconscious is so much louder, is it not?_"

A furrow formed in Sherlock's forehead. "What?"

"_Tell me, Sherlock, can you pick out the breathing of your precious John Watson?_" Another laugh, so twisted that nausea rolled in Sherlock's chest. His breathing halted as Moriarty's words registered in his brain, catching in his throat painfully. "_He sounds quite bad, doesn't he? Maybe I cracked a rib_,"

"_John,"_ It was more a gasp than a word, his fingers clutching at the phone. No.

"_Yes, Sherlock, I have your little friend here, safe and sound. Well, maybe not _safe_..._" The words faded away into a chuckle, a soft sighing, then silence.

"How-"

"_-Did I do it?_" Moriarty interjected, finishing his sentence for him. "_Quite simple, really. He followed you,_"

"He..." That idiot. Stupid, brave, selfless, idiotic, noble man!

"_Poor little soldier boy couldn't _stand _to see his Sherlock march out to his death,_" The mockery in Moriarty's tone set Sherlock's teeth on edge; no-one had any right to mock John! He could feel the slow burn of anger, rising from the pit of his stomach. "_And he rather ruined my plans,_" It almost sounded like Moriarty was pouting with disappointment. "_You see, where you now stand was the spot where I'd intended for you to die. Had it planned out _perfectly_, too! I was going to give you the most _boring_ and _dull_ death anyone could possibly imagine. A shooting in a darkened park. And a genius would die without his coveted audience!"_ Moriarty laughed once more, and the sound was nauseating. _" But Johnny-Boy here gave me _quite _the idea. Odd, isn't it? How plans change?_"

If Moriarty had John, then that was the winning hand right there. Nothing Sherlock could do now would work – Moriarty had his weakness, his Achilles heel. He. Had. John. "...I'm listening,"

The sound of a gun clicking down the phone sent Sherlock's spine tingling with that _hateful_ fear.

"I'm listening intently,"

"_Good,_" The word was a purr, Moriarty the proverbial cat with the cream. "_It's just _fascinating_, you know? John Watson, the man who taught Sherlock Holmes to care...And he's really quite ordinary, isn't he? Practically pedestrian. _Although..." Moriarty paused, as though considering something. "_He has quite a nice mouth. But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Sherlock?_" A laugh that stripped Sherlock down to nothing whispered down the phone.

"What. Do. You. Want?"

The laugh grew. "_Touched a nerve there, have I? What about if _I _kissed your little friend, Sherlock? Do you think he'd like it? He seems to be attracted to people like us,_"

"I am _not_ like you," The words rang true, although in Sherlock's mind he didn't hear his own voice speaking the words. Instead, John's voice – strong and determined – fervently whispered the words into his ear, assuring him quietly.

"_You are _exactly _like me_," Moriarty growled down the phone, every inch of that faux friendliness dissipating in less than a second. Then, with a speediness that was disturbing, he bounced back into his sing-song voice. "_But, I digress. How _did_ you like my little game anyway, Sherlock? Was it exciting enough for you? I know how bored you get_,"

"Then I must thank you for alleviating that boredom,"

"_I believe I hear sarcasm. Again with the rudeness, Sherlock. It does make me so angry to hear you be so ill-mannered. There's no telling _what_ I'll do to John Watson if I'm angry..._"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Why take him? Why not just kill me?"

"_Don't you see it?_" Moriarty's voice took on a fevered edge, euphoric delight in his words. "_Don't you see the _elegance _behind this? I'll break you...and then I'll break him...and you'll both die unable to help the other._" Then the fire died, his voice returning to the false casual that was grating down Sherlock's spine. "_It's the cruelest torture for both of you, I feel_,"

"I've seen you're a fan of torture,"

"_Hmm_," Moriarty hummed his agreement. "_It is so interesting, isn't it? What a man will do, what a man will offer, to forestall his final judgment,_"

A gentle _in, out _of breathing that was neither Moriarty's nor Sherlock's sounded.

"What do you want?"

"_In short?_"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, fighting to keep his voice civil. "If you'd be so kind," He couldn't help the grains of sarcasm that lodged themselves in his throat. It was easier to be sarcastic, he thought, it kept the fear out of his voice. And he'd be damned if he let Moriarty hear him scared.

"_And I am such a kind man, aren't I, Sherlock? Quite nice as a host, I feel. I even allowed Johnny-Boy to have your police-friend for company. Lestrade, isn't it?_"

Lestrade too? Well, John wouldn't have come alone if the option of back-up was there. "Why? Why take him? Why take John? Why pick me?"

Moriarty chuckled. "_Oh, you just _hate_ not having the answers, don't you? And that's why we'd never work, Sherlock. We're just too similar, you and I,_"

"Is that why you chose me?"

"_Yes, well, I had to go on something more than just your looks, Sherlock. And our similarities...Oh, when I found you – it was Christmas,_"

Ignoring the phrase he'd found himself uttering time and time before, Sherlock remained silent.

"_But, again, I seem to have strayed from the topic. How rude of me,_" Another small chuckle that made Sherlock's nerves twitch.

"_So, Sherlock, the time has come for you to come out and play. I have the person you hold most dear to you. Will you die for him? And can you find him in time? Oh, I can really feel the tension. It's quite exciting, don't you think? Did you like my little message, by the way? Home is where the heart is. It's quite apt, I feel,_"

"What do you want?"

"_Think it through._ _Tick, tock, Sherlock_,"

"What do you want?"

But only the mocking dial-tone answered him.

* * *

He lifted his foot, a few of the shattered pieces of the machine that had previously been a mobile phone still attached to the bottom of his shoe.

His eyes ran over his prizes almost hungrily, slumped limply against the wall. They had put up more of a fight than he had thought, but he'd been prepared. It'd been almost too easy to knock them out, a swing to the left temple and they'd been out for the count.

He stepped closer and crouched down beside one, ignoring the ever-irritating D.I Lestrade in favour of placing a nearly loving hand on the cheek of John Watson. It was brilliant, he thought, brilliant and...infinitely _pathetic_ how much this ordinary doctor had gotten to the genius Sherlock Holmes. He cocked his head to one side, as if viewing the man in another angle would help him see what Sherlock Holmes could _possibly_ see in this normal, boring, man.

It was intriguing, the thought that the great Sherlock Holmes could be brought to defeat by a man who was in no way special or wonderful. Because Moriarty had figured it out before either man; That Sherlock Holmes, the man who looked down his nose at humanity and scoffed, had begun to _care_ for the little soldier-boy.

_Pathetic!_

He removed his hand from John Watson's cheek, tucking his hands into his pockets and rocking on his heels like a small child presented with a big gift wrapped in shiny paper and topped with a big red bow.

He was going to _burn_ him, he was going to burn John Watson and burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes. Erase John Watson from the earth, and Sherlock Holmes would follow soon after. It would be wonderful – he could feel it.

* * *

There were still a few police-officers lingering in 221b when Sherlock scrambled back into the flat, eyes like hurricanes and panic radiating off of his every inch. He had to check, had to be sure, that they were gone.

The body of Micheal Warwicks was gone, taken away by the pathologist, but the flat still didn't look right even in it's absence. And that was all the confirmation he needed. But hope, killer of all common sense, made him continue to look. He pushed past officers, CSI's, and even a muttering Sally Donovan as he flitted from room to room searching for the tell-tale brown hair and warm eyes.

As he passed back past Donovan, his ears caught the tail-end of her sentence into a police-radio.

"...gone. Taken a police-car with him. Please send transport for the rest of the officers,"

The static crackled for a few seconds, before a responding voice informed her that the police car in question had been traced and was located a few streets away, but that further transport was being dispatched.

_Located a few streets away_. And what was a few streets away? The park. They _had_ followed him. Whatever hope he'd been clinging to, died in his chest as the true horror of that fact hit him. Moriarty had John, and Lestrade, and all he had to go on was the words _Home is where the heart is! _How was he meant to save them with that?

He hadn't realised he'd frozen until Donovan pushed him to one side, mumbling something about his general insanity. Ignoring her, she was inconsequential, he frantically headed back to the main room. The words were still tattooed on the wall, droplets of the blood staining the top of his leather sofa.

He tugged at his black curls, as though he could pull the answers from his mind and into the air around him, staring at the words, his eyes darting across every smeared letter and trying new combinations in his mind.

_Home is where the heart is._

_Where the heart is, is home._

The answer had to be here somewhere! What did it mean?

The heart...Well, that was painfully obvious now. So painful that it seemed to suck the air from his chest and replace the empty space with stabbing ice. The heart was John. He forced himself not to think of the blackened parody of a heart in Warwicks clenched fist, and moved on.

Home...This was home. 221b _was_ home. But John wasn't here!

_Home, home, home, home, home_...Where else was home?

Sherlock hadn't had many homes. In fact, 221b was truly the only place he'd ever felt at home. But where else was there?

He felt like he was immersed in water. Everything was moving slowly, his brain lagging, his mouth moving lethargically without any noises coming out. Too drowsy, too slow, _too slow _while the world outside just got faster and faster. Thoughts fired from his every synapse, heading from nowhere to nowhere, because nothing was adding up. Home, home, home! Where had he been at home?

Then, in a startling crash that stole his breath and clenched his heart, something clicked in his head. His brain, shooting messages at incredible speeds, froze for the most fleeting of seconds as it all sank in and the dots connected in his mind. Then, without another murmur, he turned and ran for the front door.

There were few places that Sherlock Holmes had ever felt at home. But if 221b was off the list, then there was only one possible solution.

Moriarty had John and was waiting for him in the one place he'd have never thought to look. His home for the first seventeen years of his life; The extensive country-side manor house that had been his childhood home.

And time was running out.


	18. Into The Jaws Of Death

Author's Note: Thankyou to everyone to all of your reviews. This is now, not my most reviewed story, but it is the most reviewed full-length one. So, thankyou all for that so very very much. And we're not even near the end, yet! Okay, so, I was going to post this chapter in two parts, because it turned out to be over double my usual length, but in the end I just couldn't. There was nowhere that seemed appropriate to end it, and it just seemed a bit mean. Then again, the ending of it overall isn't exactly...well, anyway. Before I blather on and give it away, here's chapter eighteen. The Sherlock + Moriarty cofrontation awaits. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter Eighteen

Into The Jaws Of Death

John blinked. Even that simple action sent rockets of pain dancing behind his eyelids. Biting his lip against the pain so hard that he drew blood, he forced himself to wrench open his eyes and blink once, twice, three more times.

The unfamiliarity of his surrounding jarred him into a state of silent shock. Ever since the war, he had never had any _'where am I?' _or_ 'what happened?'_ moments. He always woke knowing exactly where he was and exactly how he had gotten there. But now...he was staring at a darkened room with no recollection of anything past his and Lestrade's attack.

_Lestrade_!

Craning his neck, he made to look around himself. And stopped as his restraints kept him from moving. His arms had been yanked back behind him with thick ropes that were cutting into his wrists. His legs were also similarly shackled in front of him.

"Watson?" Lestrade's tired voice floated to him from somewhere to his left. Through the dark, John squinted in the general direction of the detective inspector's voice.

"Here," He called, ignoring the rasping of his voice. He cleared his throat, almost choking on the dust in the air.

"Where are we?" The question was so horror-movie cliché that John had to restrain a highly inappropriate laugh.

"At a guess, we're in a cellar somewhere – judging by the lack of windows, cold temperature, and stone walls," John reeled off, attempting to see in the darkness. He tested the strength of his ropes one at a time, trying to think of what to do next, and restrained a wince as the ropes cut deeper into his flesh. He felt fresh rivulets of hot blood twist down the inside of his arms.

"How long have we been here then?"

John heard similar sounds of ropes, and moans of pain as Lestrade shifted. "I'm not sure. I've been awake for about twenty minutes. They must have hit you harder than me,"

John made a strange sound in the back of his throat.

"Did you see who it was who attacked us?" Lestrade asked into the silence of the room.

"No, but I guess it's obvious,"

"Moriarty,"

"Exactly,"

A voice cut through the blackness of the cellar, or dungeon, or chamber or _whatever_ it was they were trapped in. "Oh, well _done_, boys. I couldn't be more proud of you,"

A man emerged from the shadows like mist solidifying into a human form. He was a tall man, just less than six feet, with a slim, athletic frame. He appeared quite young, maybe not even in his thirties, and he wore an expensive suit of a dark black, paired with a purple tie. His pale, almost watery, eyes gave him an air of innocent curiosity as he stared at John. It was unnerving, how almost childlike he appeared.

"But, unfortunately, that knowledge isn't going to do you any good, I'm afraid,"

His voice, carefully modulated but practically thrumming with madness, set John's nerves alight with quiet fear. That voice, coupled with the almost innocent looking face, was such a study of contradictions that it terrified John – though he refused to show it.

"What, nothing to say? Not even a hello?" The man's almost reptilian face seemed quite affronted. "Now, now, John. Don't be rude,"

"Moriarty, I presume?" John asked, lifting his head up to glare at the man holding the torch.

"A point to Dr Watson. Come on, Detective Inspector, you're falling behind here," The sing-song timbre of Moriarty's voice scratched along John's spine in irritation.

"Why have you kidnapped us?" Lestrade asked, his voice changing from the worried hostage to Detective Inspector in seconds.

"Oh, Detective Inspector, I'm disappointed," Moriarty waved a faux-reprimanding finger. "_Surely_, even you can think of a reason,"

"Okay," John answered, causing Moriarty's gaze to switch to him. "What do you want with Sherlock, then?"

"Oh, _very good_," Moriarty clapped his hands slowly, mockingly. "You're asking the right questions, Doctor," Moriarty laughed again and John observed how wild it sounded, so unbalanced.

"Are you going to start answering them?" Lestrade asked.

Moriarty turned his cold smile on the Detective Inspector, heading further away from John and towards Lestrade. John used the time in which he was distracted to try and weaken the ropes around his wrists. The problem was, he had no idea whether he was succeeding or not. All he had to go on was that the pain around his wrists got worse with every tug he gave.

As Moriarty began to speak, he felt one wrist slip a little, as if it might escape. He smiled softly, triumph lingering in the single facial gesture. But _careful_, he warned himself. _Keep quiet, head down, and maybe, maybe, get out alive._

"Oh, Detective Inspector, you are _precious_," Moriarty crowed, rubbing his hands together with all the happiness of a young child allowed his favourite Lego set for Christmas.

"So, what now, then?" John asked before Moriarty could continue his derision of Lestrade. "Care to share?"

Moriarty's head oscillated to face John once more, looking more like a vicious lizard than John could have ever believed a human being to do. A smirk played on his lips, looking perfectly at home on his face. "What do you think, Doctor?" He asked.

There were so many things that John longed to say, to scream and shout at the man who'd made them run around like headless chickens to figure out his game. So many expletives, insults and curses he wished to throw at the man with enough venom to _burn_ through his smug face.

But goading Moriarty wouldn't be the best idea; Not for him or Lestrade or, undoubtedly, Sherlock. Because that was who it was all for, really. A battle of the genius – Moriarty against Sherlock – and only _one _would win. So, he kept silent, and simply stared back at the man who was as close to evil as he would ever get.

"No answer?" Moriarty raised an eyebrow, rocking back onto his left foot as surprise twisted his lips. "How..._odd_. I would have though you'd be _dying_ to figure out what plans I have in store for your beloved Sherlock Holmes. No?"

His words brought a poisonous glare from John, but no more.

"Oh, Dr Watson, you _do_ disappoint," Moriarty shook his head with an almost petulant look on his face, before reaching down and placing a hand on John's cheek. He cringed away from the touch, as though Moriarty's fingers were toxic. One thumb grazed across his mouth, and John jerked away as if he'd been scalded. "Such a pretty mouth, John. I can see why Sherlock wanted it so much,"

John's eyes were like daggers of steel and his jaw clenched painfully as he attempted to pull his head out of Moriarty's grip. But the man just held on tighter, bony fingers digging into John's skin with all the strength of industrial metal. "John Watson. _Dr_ John Watson. The medical man, the solider...which are you?" He asked rather amiably, tapping John's face once then letting his hand drop.

He clasped his hands beneath his own throat, a quiet madness flickering in his eyes. "Do _you _even know?" He sank to the floor, crossing his legs and looking at them like a child expecting a bedtime story.

"Right, now that we've had a lovely little _chat_," Lestrade cut in, his voice barbed with a strange mixture of fear, disgust and annoyance. "Are you going to tell us why we're here?"

"Well, there's really no point in you being here, Detective Inspector," Moriarty sent him a look that could nearly pass for pitying. "You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time...No, it's the doctor here who I'm interested in,"

"Him?" Lestrade asked, ignoring the amused smirk on Moriarty's face. "What about Sherlock?"

If it were possible for Moriarty's sneer to grow, it did at Lestrade's words. "Sherlock Holmes..." He paused with a disturbing giddiness. "...has outgrown his use. He's been interesting, to say the least. But most disappointing,"

Ice shards of fear began to pierce into John's chest as Moriarty's words clicked like the trigger on a gun – _Outgrown his use._

"I had such hope for Sherlock," Moriarty looked quite regretful, uncrossing his legs and stretching them in front of him. Getting comfy, John realised. Arrogant bastard. "I'd heard so much about him. Sherlock Holmes the genius. Sherlock Holmes the sociopath. Sherlock Holmes the unfeeling son-of-a-bitch. I heard them all. But the man failed to live up to the expectation because, you see," He fixed John with an intense stare that scratched at the bottom of his spine. "He has a _heart_, after all,"

* * *

Sherlock stepped onto the boundary of his father's old property. The old building was still, having been abandoned since his father's death six years ago. He was certain that Mycroft still ensured that it was clean and not falling into disrepair, but neither Holmes brother had visited since their parents had passed.

Feeling a brief wave of nostalgia, he pushed it down beneath the fear and dread that was building up in him as he saw two deep ridges in the gravel drive. Both the average width of human shoulders – they'd been dragged.

The usual calculating, detached way he solved these things had disappeared. Out of his reach. He began to walk up the gravel drive, towards the main house. His customary disconnected attitude wasn't going to help him now. He was running off of pure fear, his thoughts speedier but more rash and dangerous.

It was hazardous to be here, not just for him but for John. If Sherlock was acting rashly, he knew his actions wouldn't be as carefully thought-out as usual. But he knew he could do nothing else.

His spider-leg fingers grasped the door-knob. He hesitated for a beat, and pushed it open.

* * *

"I wonder, Dr Watson, what you will do when you see your precious Sherlock again?" Moriarty tipped his head, his voice still terrifyingly lilting and carefree. "Will you cry? Because that's the one thing I just _can't_ do. But it's so interesting to watch, to see that moment when you realise that there's no hope left for you. See the light in your eyes die. It's absolutely _fascinating_,"

"And I'm also curious as to how the little detective himself will react to seeing you – his beloved John Watson – in the hands of yours truly. What do you think?" A gleam in his maniacal eyes flared dangerously. "What _will_ the Great Sherlock Holmes do?"

Moriarty's stare, trained on John's face in fascination, suddenly broke – freeing him from the prison the man's gaze brought. His eyes snapped to the stairs behind him, narrowed in concentration. And a loud _click_ echoed through the sudden choking silence.

"Oh," Moriarty's face lit up in a smile that split his face, ecstatic. And John finally felt truly afraid. "I think we're about to find out, boys. The prodigal son returns to his home,"

"You're insane!" Lestrade spat, not comprehending the meaning laid heavily in Moriarty's words.

But John felt his fear extend through his body, spidering along his veins, paralyzing him. The final piece in Moriarty's chess game had arrived, the most important piece – Sherlock was here.

_Sherlock goddamnit! Get the fuck out of here!_

"I shall be back in no time, boys. Don't go anywhere," Moriarty chuckled, getting to his feet and brushing down his suit. "Westwood," He explained haughtily, though neither John nor Lestrade had shown any interest.

With a swing of the door, and the flicking off of Moriarty's torch, John and Lestrade were once again left in darkness.

"_Fuck!_" John strained against his ropes with everything he had in him, no longer having to hide his attempts at escape. He could feel the restraints begin to slick with his own blood and he bit his teeth against the pain. "Sherlock's here,"

He strained again, harder and more violently this time. He groaned with the effort as shockwaves of pain echoed through his arms and into his chest.

"Struggling will do nothing, Watson. It'll only wear you out, and you'll be no good to Sherlock then,"

Ignoring the actual words, and focusing on Lestrade's poorly hidden hope that they _would _get out of there, John bit his lip against the agony and _pulled!_

He felt skin shredding and tears of intense pain rolled down his cheeks, but he refused to acknowledge them as he focused on his restraints. Minutes passed, but he wasn't sure how many because all he could really focus on was the _agony _that was tearing inside his wrist. With a final cry of pain, saturated with quiet victory, his left wrist slid free, snagging on the rope and drawing another groan from his mouth. He breathed a sigh of relief, and made to working on the bindings around his ankles. Though not as tight as those around his wrists, they were still pretty difficult to get to. Especially with the terrifying amounts of blood that was flowing from his wrists. And John was acutely aware that every second that ticked by was another second that Sherlock spent alone with Moriarty.

"How did..." Lestrade spluttered, as John shook his arms and legs, trying to get rid of the agonising shocks of pain in his limbs. He bit his cheek in response to the pain, tasting the metallic tang of more blood in his mouth. He spat it out and yanked himself free.

"I'm strong. I was at war, so I'm not weak. Not to mention, when someone threatens the people I care about I'm pretty damn unstoppable!"

Lestrade stared at him as if he were staring simultaneously at some kind of lost deity and a raving madman. If the situation were any less serious, John might have grinned at the expression on the man's face, but it _was _serious and Sherlock was in the house with a man out for his death.

"Go," Lestrade told him as John began to make his way to the Inspector. "I'll get myself out, just go find Sherlock,"

John nodded, already crossing the room with quick strides. He could hear the sickening sound of his own blood dripping on the floor, but ignored it. He couldn't allow his mind to be anymore distracted.

"Good luck,"

John didn't answer as he opened the unlocked door – Clearly Moriarty hadn't expected him to claw his way free – and slipped out into a darkened corridor.

* * *

The door of his old home closed behind him with a loud click, shutting out the little light the moon outside presented. Not a single light in the house was on, leaving a growing sense of foreboding in his abdomen.

A thrill of coveted anticipation - and something he'd deny was fear – chased up and down his spine and swelled to a trembling climax in his chest as he moved like a ghost through the deserted hallways of his childhood home.

He wouldn't say it aloud, ridiculous superstition still managed to affect him somewhat, but a quiet confidence flickered in Sherlock's mind. Here, Moriarty was out of his element while Sherlock was in his most familiar territory. Sherlock knew every thread in the grand carpets, every piece of artwork on the wall, every window and door, knew every shadow that arrived when the night fell. Night had always been his favourite time during his childhood, away from the irritating and judging eyes of his family, and he'd prowled the house for seventeen years. There was nothing he didn't know about this house.

His feet made no sound on the carpets as he moved up the staircase and through the house. He knew exactly where Moriarty would be. And, sure enough, through the gloom of the house there was a gentle glow of light at the end of a corridor he was intimately familiar with.

Sherlock pushed open the door to his old bedroom and strode in. His keen eyes appraised the room; the bookcase that claimed one wall with books strewn across it in haphazard piles, the desk that was littered with papers and chemical equipment, the blackened edges of the wall from one of his less successful experiments, and the large double bed in the centre of the room upon which there was a notable difference.

"Hello, sexy,"

The suited figure of Jim Moriarty reclined back on Sherlock's bed, one hand tucked lazily behind his head and a book held aloft in the other. Sherlock didn't want to think about the similarities between Moriarty's pose and the one he himself has relaxed in many times before.

A wide, smug grin spread across Moriarty's face and his pale eyes evaluated Sherlock as he stood in the doorway. He twisted the hand holding the book and flashed Sherlock a glimpse of the pages. Sherlock vaguely recognised the book as his own school notebook. "You were such an intelligent boy, Sherlock, even at such a young age," He jumped up off of the bed and set the book down next to a weapon Sherlock knew well – John's gun.

He couldn't stop the flood of fear as it immersed his chest.

"And should I be flattered?" Sherlock stayed by the door, knowing better than to move any closer.

Moriarty collected up the gun, twisting it almost absently in his hand. _Left_ hand, Sherlock noted.

"You should be, but I doubt you are," Moriarty dug his spare hand into his pocket and walked casually forwards a few steps, but kept his distance.

"You think correctly," He kept his voice level with quiet ease. He had experience with concealing himself from others.

Moriarty hummed a laugh, fixing his intense eyes on Sherlock's unreadable face. He swung his head to the left, moving his gaze to the wardrobe that still stood open and empty but for a pair of jeans that Sherlock could barely remember wearing. "You know, I have to say..." The sharp drawl was disconcerting, for the sole reason that Sherlock had often used the tone himself. "You are _fascinating_,"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. "Really?

"Come now, Sherlock, false humility isn't attractive," Moriarty sent a mock-disapproving glare at the detective, a flicker of glee in his pale eyes. "But, really, I hadn't expected you to find me here so quickly – I'm impressed,"

"That _is_ my aim in life," Sherlock kept his voice aloof, silently searching out Moriarty's person for any indications as to where John was. Because he had to be here. As Moriarty twisted to examine the bookcase - as though Sherlock had simply invited him to look at his room - Sherlock caught sight of patches of dust on his Westwood suit.

There was little to no dust in the house, thanks to Mycroft's interference. That narrowed it down….The cellar or the attic. But he had no idea which. And it was too dangerous to guess, if he picked wrong then John's fate would be sealed. He needed to be clever, slow down, think it through and keep Moriarty away from John.

"Now, now, Sherlock. What did I say about being rude?" Moriarty admonished lightly, with the tone of one teaching complex algebra to a toddler. "You don't want me doing anything silly, do you?"

"You say that as if you're not intending to anyway,"

"Very _good_, Sherlock," Sherlock only just managed to restrain a grimace at the breathy voice of delight. "You're quite right, of course. You're not leaving here alive,"

Sherlock allowed a condescending grin to grace his lips. "Watch me,"

Moriarty opened his mouth in a child-like grin. "You honestly believe it," His voice was almost pitying. Then, his voice snapped back into something that would have resembled seriousness were it not for the manic joy in his face. "But you seem to have arrived completely unprepared. No weapon, no back-up...I'm quite disappointed. I was expecting some _excitement_,"

"I'm sorry to disappoint,"

"No, you're not," Moriarty sang, grinning and looking for all the world like a small child allowed to open their Christmas presents early. "You forget, my dear, that I can read you like a book,"

"I doubt that,"

"Hmmm, do you?" Moriarty's amiable parody of a smile twisted violently and all at once he was before Sherlock, tangling one slim hand in his hair and pulling his face painfully toward his. Sherlock jerked back, but the cold edge of John's gun was pressed hard into his jugular, restricting his movements. He froze as Moriarty stopped a few inches away from Sherlock's face, as though he were a lover hesitating before a kiss.

"Well, then, how about if I say _this_;" Moriarty's breath brushed across Sherlock's face and the five fingers in Sherlock's hair tightened painfully. Sherlock's spine stiffened, revulsion swirling in his throat. But he'd be damned if he let Moriarty know how much this was getting to him. "Your little soldier-boy is going to die tonight. And it's going to be all your fault. Can you picture it, Sherlock? Johnny-Boy is going to die knowing that he would have lived were it not for you,"

The gun trailed slowly across Sherlock's collar-bone, dipping beneath the material of his coat, jacket and shirt to press hard against his right shoulder. Moriarty's face took on a faux-contemplative expression. "Do you think it would be poetic, Sherlock? If I put a bullet in your shoulder? I think so. I can take you out of this war, the same way Johnny was taken out of his,"

Sherlock's heart jumped into double-time and he forced himself to freeze – he had no way out of this. Moriarty could pull a trigger much quicker than he could run. He'd been an idiot, blinded by his fear, and now John was going to die. They both were.

_No, no_, he couldn't let that happen. But he also couldn't stop Moriarty's finger as it pulled back on the trigger with a painful crack. The noise registered first...and then the pain erupted. It spidered down his arm, tap-dancing across his nerves until it began to cling to every millimetre of his arm, from the blossoming petals of red on his shoulder to the very tips of his shaking fingers.

A spasm of the pain contorted his features. His vision blurred, then cleared to see Moriarty's euphoric face. He staggered and then, with a hoarse cry, crashed heavily to the floor.

_Ignore it. Ignore the pain. It's nothing but a warning signal. A signal from a set of wires that run through the body. Focus on the body. The body will help you escape, not the pain. The pain will only distract you. Ignore the pain…_

"Oh, yes, very effective," The contemplative sound of Moriarty's voice broke in through the haze of pain, before hands grasped his shoulders and twisted him violently onto his back. Through his tunnel-vision, Sherlock saw Moriarty grin. He'd barely documented that, before fingers, cold and painful, clamped around his neck. The digits pressing on his jugular made him choke as he reached uselessly for something, _anything_. "Poetic, as I said,"

Moriarty's fingers squeezed and throttled about his throat. Sherlock's body jerked, trying to breathe, trying to twist away, but Moriarty had all the power here and Sherlock was helpless.

A vial of _something_ was forced hard against his lips. Sherlock's eyes widened as he attempted to wrestle his way free. Liquid swirled and glimmered golden in the dim light, thick and yellow.

And suddenly his mouth was full of fiery sourness, as though his tongue were being stung, bitten and dipped in acid all at once. He coughed and spat and tried not to swallow, but most of the fluid burned a blistering path down his throat despite his efforts. He battled against the hands holding him, each passing moment his mind becoming more distorted as his insides seared and burned in the wake of the concoction forced down his throat. He twisted and bucked, his hands scrabbling at the fingers on his neck.

"Does it hurt?" Moriarty's voice hissed against his ear as the man crouched by his side. "Does it _burn_?" A hand yanked him by the scruff of his shirt, throwing him against the side of his old bed. Bright lights popped into life behind his eyelids as his head hit the floor.

Sherlock gasped for breath, forcing himself to open his eyes. He raised his left hand and pressed it against his shoulder hard in an attempt to stem the bleeding, the pain not yet great enough to addle his mind – but it was getting so much harder to think.

A manic burning swelled in the eyes too dark to be anything but sinister. "Can you feel it burning, my little detective? Can you feel it?" Moriarty sang, menacing delight ringing clear through the air between them. Sherlock clutched at his shoulder and bent double as his stomach seared. "Oh, if only you'd stayed away, Sherlock Holmes. But that's not like you, is it? You're just not the type to ignore a good puzzle,"

Thoughts buzzed like hornets through Sherlock's mind, stinging in his mind and then stinging again. _Get up! Stand up! Do something, anything! _His mind was screaming at him, telling him that he had to get up and run to wherever John was to help him.

But his body was shrieking at him to just roll over and die, to let the pain leave his body. His heart pounded, his breaths were ragged and shallow, and every muscle he had ached. He'd gotten adept at ignoring his body's whims, but it was with a Herculean effort that he managed to cling on now. And every second was draining his strength away.

He was almost overwhelmed with the pain. It was coming from the centre of his burning chest, destroying everything in its path, shredding his nerves and tearing his skin to bits. He opened his mouth to scream, but another wave of pain crashed about him, rendering him immobile. He was almost grateful – To scream in front of Moriarty would be more than he could bear.

"I had such high hopes for you, Sherlock Holmes," The taunting voice of Moriarty was back, louder and more painful than before. "You were going to be such an _interesting _opponent – someone worthy of my competition and my time. But I was wrong, wasn't I? You're not as cold as people believe you to be, you have a heart, emotions...and _weaknesses_. You're just as _dull_ as the rest of the world!"

And, for once, the adjective didn't matter. Although Sherlock Holmes was a man who'd sooner die than be described as 'dull', a dull man with dull concerns about weather and bus-times; This time it didn't matter. The thought of it usually made his skin crawl with the need to do _something_ to prove them wrong. But now, the only thing his brain was centred on was finding a way to save John, and _oh God_, the pain!

He willed himself to think of anything but the insatiable fire in his stomach and the deadening sensation in his shoulder, and, mercifully, John's face swam into his mind. His gentle smile in place, and his eyes sparkling. John opened his mouth to speak, and the pain began to dull. Sherlock could hear Moriarty speaking once again.

"So, you're no use to me now, my little detective. And you're as good as dead. You'll be immobile in minutes, burning alive. And you _will_ be burning, Sherlock. But it'll take _days _for you to die. And I'll be able to kill your precious John Watson before your very eyes,"

_Be able to kill your precious John Watson..._

_Kill your precious John Watson..._

_Your precious John Watson..._

_John Watson..._

His weakness, the one faulty brick in the wall of Troy.

His thoughts thrashed at the cracks of his skull like an animal in a cage; they were volatile, and shrieking, and a repetitive, broken loop. He hadn't thought ahead, he hadn't been careful. He'd been rash, acting on impulse and emotion, and it had led to this.

_John!_

* * *

The knob to the next door John found turned easily in his hand. He'd half expected it to be locked, but it was painstakingly obvious that Moriarty hadn't anticipated John to escape his bounds. That was the main thing that John had over the psychopath; While Moriarty could foresee Sherlock's moves, John wasn't a genius. He was just a normal man, and Moriarty couldn't relate to a man who wasn't exceptional. That was why he'd chosen Sherlock, because of his genius.

The door opened into a large empty corridor, dark and shadowy. A chandelier glinted in the dim light that the moon provided from a large window to his right. There was no sign of a struggle here, or blood. But a set of footprints were faintly imprinted in the slight dust.

Knowing that he had no other options, nothing else he could possibly want to do different, he followed them through the house. His heart pounded in his ears as he arrived at the foot of the staircase – _two_ sets of footprints.

His hand slid as he grasped the banister in an attempt to hurry himself, though whether it was because of sweat or the terrifying amounts of blood slickening his flesh he didn't know. His footsteps sounded like drumbeats in the silence as he sprinted through the corridors, checking every door frantically.

Straining his sense, he caught sight of a glint of light and a dull murmur reached his ears - he could hear something. It was talking, people talking. No...it was one man talking.

_There's someone behind that door!_

He headed frantically towards the sound, not daring to even breathe, exerting his ears to hear the mockingly familiar voice.

"So, you're no use to me now, my little detective. And you're as good as dead. You'll be immobile in minutes, burning alive. And you _will_ be burning, Sherlock Holmes. But it'll take _days _for you to die. And I'll be able to kill your precious John Watson before your very eyes,"

He closed the gap between himself and the door in an instant. He had no weapon. The gun he usually kept in his jeans had been taken on his attack – It was more than likely with Moriarty. So if he found Moriarty and Sherlock, he found the weapon to either stop Moriarty killing Sherlock...Or the weapon Moriarty would use to kill Sherlock.

Fighting down immobilising fear, he wrenched the door open.

The light was just as dim, but the two bodies on the floor might as well have been spotlit for all the attention he paid to the rest of the room. A moan of pain from the collapsed man sent an erupted of fear blasting through him like fiery frostwork. The eyes, usually so light with fervour and passion, were half-covered and dulled. If it hadn't been for the expression of quiet defiance, even in obvious pain, John would never have recognised Sherlock in such a position of defeat.

A small empty vial lay few feet away from the pair, a few droplets of amber liquid lingering in the bottom. But the same amber tint was around the edges of Sherlock's mouth and falling in lines to his jugular from where he'd obviously attempted to spit it out.

A puddle of red, eerily still and reflecting the lights above, sent his mind into a panicked overdrive as he saw that the blood, that macabre lake of scarlet, was oozing from Sherlock's shoulder

And, finally, the last thing in the room that John noticed was his own gun lying abandoned on the nearest table, slick with warm blood. That was what he lunged for as only one word, one thought, came to John's mind. Just one word. One tiny insignificant word. He raised the gun, his mind shouting a terrible, fearless _NO!_ but the soldier in him kept his face blank as his brain railed and screamed.

The click of the gun against the back of Moriarty's head made the man stand slowly. "What a surprise, doctor," He said, his voice loathsomely smooth.

"I'm sure," John nodded, his eyes darting between Sherlock's frighteningly still form and the back of Moriarty's head as though he were watching a deadly tennis game.

"You left the poor Detective Inspector all alone down there,"

"He'll survive,"

Moriarty turned slowly, so that he was staring down the barrel of the gun. He wore the evil well, the malevolence saturating the air all around him like an intoxicating fragrance, crooking a smoky finger at you and enticing you that one step closer.

"You won't kill me, John Watson,"

But John had had dealings with evil before. And he had something infinitely more intoxicating that this psychopath with his tailored suits. Something much more worth it...something that was lying on the floor and didn't seem to be breathing anymore.

"Oh, really? I've killed before,"

"I know you have, but you won't kill me," He took a step closer, so that the barrel of John's gun was pressed tight against his head, as if he were daring John to pull the trigger.

"And why not?"

Moriarty's mouth twisted into some terrible parody of a smile. "Because, if you kill me, I won't be able to tell you the antidote,"

"Antido..." John stared in terrifying realisation at the vial and then the fallen detective. "You've poisoned him," The hand holding the gun faltered, dropping to Moriarty's chest without his consent before he raised it back and pressed it harder into the suited-psychopath's forehead.

"And he put up _quite _the fight, too. You'd have been proud of him, doctor,"

"Don't play with me, it won't work,"

"Won't it?" Moriarty raised an eyebrow, looking like the epitome of calm even in the face of death.

"You'll never give me the antidote. If I kill you, you can't tell me, but if I let you live you still won't tell me."

"Are you _sure_, John Watson? What if this is all part of a game?"

"It's not," John's voice never wavered, even though he could feel his heartbeat accelerating at the thought of poison speeding through Sherlock's veins. "You've gotten bored of it. This is your grand finale...you've stopped your boredom. You don't need Sherlock anymore. Like you said, _he's outgrown his use,_"

"But I'm _oh so_ changeable. I don't want this game to end just yet. You see, there's a whole new _realm_ of possibilities and opportunities now that Sherlock has a heart. A weakness. It's added an entirely new level to the _pain_ I can bring him," Moriarty's face lit up like a poisonous rainbow, his pupils dilated and his breathing heavy at the mere thought of Sherlock's anguish.

"You're not going to touch him," John corrected him. "It's game over, and you've lost,"

Something passed between then, the length of a single heartbeat, impossibly short and yet entirely unmistakable – A primal reaction between hunter and prey in the climactic moment just before one claimed victory and the other collapsed in defeat. And the sudden silence was so absolute that it was a pulsing living thing that pounded between them and enveloped them entirely.

He looked surprised. That was what John remembered most about Professor J. Moriarty's last moments. The look of pure, unadulterated shock that spread across his face as the bullet buried itself in his brain. As if he still didn't believe that John had actually done it.

* * *

He was dying, he knew it, and he was never going to see John again. He just wanted to see him once more, speak to him once more.

Sherlock closed his eyes...


	19. Into The Mouth Of Hell

Author's Note: Again, wow and thankyou to all of you amazing reviewers. I guess I am kind of mean, aren't I? And, sorry, but I'm not getting any nicer. But, I promise, this is the last chapter with a cliffhanger. I _promise _you. Also, to _Elvendork-Infinity, _thankyou for pointing out the mistake heightwise. I immediatley went back and fixed it. And, also, yes, it was a reference to House. You find all my House references! Anyway, I hope you all like this chapter and I promise to post the next one first thing on Sunday morning if that at all counteracts the meanness of this chapter. I hope you enjoy, and sorry for the cliffhanger.

Chapter Nineteen

Into The Mouth Of Hell

He was scared, so scared. He didn't remember ever being this scared before. Not even in Afghanistan when it had been his own life on the line, not even when he'd been hit in the shoulder by a stray bullet, not even when he'd been lying in a make-shift hospital tent with bombs exploding not two miles away.

He fell to his knees beside Sherlock's curled up frame, throwing aside the corpse of Moriarty and pressing a steady hand to Sherlock's moist forehead. Beads of sweat rolled across the pale skin, making him look even more dead than usual. Only, this time, the detective's pallor didn't amuse John. All it served to do was tell him that the blood was leaving his body too quickly.

He pressed two fingers to Sherlock's blood-soaked neck, searching for a pulse. For a terrifying, heart-stopping second, his fingers couldn't find a beat underneath the slick skin. But, then, the gentle _Lub, lub. Lub, lub. Lub, lub, _made itself known across his fingers. It was quiet, it was slow, but it was _there_.

He let out a shuddering breath; Sherlock was alive, hanging onto life. A tenuous hold, but he was gripping with all the strength he had left. Sherlock made a sound, a quiet whimper.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, it's me, it's John."

Sherlock shuddered under his touch, his skin clammy. John gathered him into his lap as he trembled, and a feeble murmur quivered from Sherlock's lips. "...John...hurts...nrgh," Whatever other words that Sherlock might have had drowned into an agonised moan that made John suck in a terrified gasp.

Part of him acknowledged that he was crying as he felt the tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Sherlock, try and keep your eyes open. Stay with me," He ordered the detective, ripping Sherlock's coat off of him as his fever rose impossibly higher. He pressed the material to Sherlock's shoulder, _his shoulder_, trying to staunch the blood-flow. His hands were soon covered with the detective's blood.

"...Where...would I go?" Sherlock mumbled, his forehead creasing in excruciating pain. His voice was thin, like it was fading along with him.

Choking back a laugh that merged into a sob, John focused on working off Sherlock's crumpled suit-jacket, leaving the detective in a damp purple shirt with petals of red across the material. Sherlock sighed in momentary relief at the cool air, before curling up again with a whine, clinging to John as though his life depended on it. But his arms were weak, what little strength he had was fading fast.

"Focus, Sherlock, do you hear me? Pull away from it. Stay _here_."

Sherlock blinked a few times, but his eyes were glassy, and it seemed like he was barely present. He took an uneasy breath, and bent double, clutching his chest with a sharp cry.

In a panic that chilled his veins, John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand, and gave it a sharp squeeze, hanging on to him as tightly as he could. When the expected reply squeeze never came, John's heart missed a beat. He looked up; Sherlock's eyes were closed. "Sherlock!" He shook Sherlock by the shoulder. "Sherlock, open your eyes!"

Sherlock lay perfectly still, still curled awkwardly around himself and John's arm. The only movement he seemed capable of was the small spasms of his muscles as pain seared through him. John shook Sherlock once more, desperation fueling him stronger than the adrenaline in his body. "Sherlock, look at me! Damn it, Sherlock, not now! Please, not now!" But Sherlock's eyes didn't open.

John laid a shaking hand on Sherlock's chest, searching for that sign of life. He could feel the slight, erratic rise and fall of Sherlock's weak breathing, but it was too slow, much too slow. He choked back the terrified lump in his throat, refusing to acknowledge the tears rolling down his face and splashing Sherlock's shirt.

Before John could even begin to search out Sherlock's phone to call someone, _anyone_, the crashing sound of numerous footsteps and yelling voices made him look up in a motion so fast that his neck cracked painfully.

"You didn't think they'd just forget me, did you?" Lestrade's voice behind him caught some level of interest, but John just moved his gaze back to Sherlock's face as he moaned again and bit his bottom lip. "Remember, each member of the M.I.T has GPS in their wrist-watch and...What's wrong with him?"

"Poison. Bullet. We need to get him to a hospital," John told him shortly as members of the Scotland Yard he both knew and didn't flooded into the room, all holding guns aloft. "_Now_!" He yelled when Lestrade did nothing but stand there like a statue.

"What's wrong with Watson?" A voice he recognised as Sergeant Donovan asked from behind him. He resisted the urge to throw something heavy at her, she wasn't helping.

"Sherlock's dying," Lestrade answered curtly, "We need to get him to the hospital."

The next thirty minutes passed John by in a rush of terrifying blurs and lagging dips in time. Nothing concrete managed to force itself into his brain as Sherlock was taken from his arms, he all but yelled bloody murder until Sherlock was back by his side, they were bustled into a police-car, flew past every red light with the alarms blazing, were yanked from the car and on to stretchers and taken to a private room.

John's worry sky-rocketed as they drew curtains between their two beds, sealing Sherlock away from his view. Knowing that it would do him no good to kick up a fuss didn't help him in the slightest, but he kept silent as the nurses came in. Apparently someone, he suspected Lestrade, had made a worry about him being in shock and that meant the boring questions of 'What's your name', 'What's the year', 'Who's the Prime Minister'. The last question made him smile, because he could still hear Sherlock's irritated voice;

_'What does it matter to me who the Prime Minister is? What good does it do me? Is he coming for tea, no! Therefore, it doesn't matter, John.'_

He hadn't realised he was crying again, until one of the nurses timidly handed him a tissue.

Once his shredded wrists were cleaned up and bandaged, and he was declared sane, not in shock, and a waste of hospital beds, he was shunted from the room with Sherlock in it, to the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting room. And anger began to take the place of the gut-wrenching worry, which he was thankful for – it was easier to deal with.

Why the hell was he there? Lestrade was with the doctors in Sherlock's room, keeping track of his condition, and _no-one _was talking to _him_! And he was a goddamn doctor, dammit!

He looked around, staring around the room helplessly. He could go mad here. This was why he'd never been an orthodox doctor, this was why he'd gone to Afghanistan rather than to a hospital; He despised the places. The too-bright lights that brought into sharp relief the misery and despair that saturated the waiting rooms. The unsettling whispers of the nurses, because you never knew whether they were talking about _your _loved one or not. The feeling of terror whenever a stoic-faced doctor walked your way.

He could only imagine what a state he looked; Hair hanging about a pallid face in half-dry half-wet rat tails, blue eyes wide and staring unseeingly into the maddening whiteness of the wall, lips chapped and battered by hours of abuse from his teeth.

Doctors passed by in a flurry of voices and thumping footsteps, each one making him look up in undisguised panic, and time passed in sinister ticks and tocks, each moment feeling like a lifetime and yet at the same time like he couldn't hang onto it for long enough.

"Coffee?" John looked up at the proffered styrofoam cup, blank eyes tracing up the arm and into the face of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

He took the cup in silence, not making eye contact with the older man, but didn't drink. The caffeine would probably help, give him an added rush that would buy him a few more hours of alertness, but he just stared into the dark liquid with unseeing eyes.

"Do you...Do you have any idea what's going on?"

He sounded so pathetic, so scared and weak, that if the situation wasn't so terrifying John would have been ashamed. But it _was _terrifying, because Sherlock's life was hanging in the balance. And John couldn't do a damn thing about it!

_He might die._

The words, traitorous inside his skull, thrashed about his mind like an angry swarm of bees, stinging at every synapse in his brain.

"They're still trying to figure out what kind of poison he's been given." Lestrade sighed, his hopelessness ringing clear in the single sound. "Running tests, taking blood, that kind of thing,"

John nodded, clenching his jaw as he glared at the liquid in his hands. He couldn't drink it – his stomach was rolling with the need to do something. After a few seconds of silence, Lestrade seemed to recognise that John wouldn't speak again. The Detective Inspector sat in the next chair but one to John, keeping up a stream of mindless chatter. John didn't know whether it was to distract him or Lestrade himself, but it was easy to tune out as he merely stared into his now tepid coffee, occasionally glancing towards the double doors they'd wheeled Sherlock through hours ago.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" A pair of polished black Mary-Jane's stepped into the edges of John's vision, accompanied by a woman's saccharine voice.

"That's me. Do you have any news?" Lestrade stood, moving in front of a red-headed doctor in a white lab-coat. John snapped his eyes to the pair, trying to read the nature of the news in the woman's face. But he was no Sherlock, he couldn't read anything from her emotionless expression.

"Mr Holmes' doctors believe they may have identified the poison. They're just about to administer the antidote, but forms need signing. And there's no contact number for his next of kin. We need your signature,"

"Mine?"

"Yes, come with me," The redhead turned on her heels, leaving no room for Lestrade to argue with her. The Detective Inspector turned hesitantly to face John, who only nodded. If Lestrade was needed to save Sherlock, then he had to go. Fast.

The silence stretched on.

"How is he?" John asked, jumping to his feet as soon as he saw Lestrade come back through the double doors a half an hour later. "How's he doing?"

"They didn't let me see him." John dropped back into his seat in defeat, looking as though he were a man who'd just been pushed off an aeroplane sans parachute. "But they've given him the antidote. They're letting in visitors in the morning. You should go home, get some rest, and come back in the morning,"

"I'm not leaving," The words were quiet, but every ounce of John's conviction ran with each letter.

"You need to sle-"

"I'm _not _leaving,"

Lestrade took one look at the man and nodded. For a second John thought that Lestrade was going to leave, but then the Detective Inspector sat back in the plastic chair by John's side, and the two men stared in silence at a pair of double doors which were staying firmly shut.

* * *

"He hasn't woken up yet, but we're not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. His breathing is fine, if shallow, his fever's down, and his heartbeat is finally regular. But the poison found in his bloodstream is rare, there simply isn't enough information on all the possible side effects of it. His conditions could be normal, or they could be some kind of warning sign for something worse. We don't know,"

John felt as though his heart had stopped with the sensations the nurse's words brought. He felt like he was choking on the air around him, and every ribbon of it was bringing with it newfound facets of both fear and comfort.

"So, are we allowed to see him yet?" Lestrade asked, noticing that John wasn't about to speak anytime soon.

The nurse that John would remember for the rest of his life, then spoke the words he would never forget. "Your friend has been very lucky. But there's a chance he might not make it through the night,"

_He might not make it through the night_; Those eight, dizzying words twisted and raged through John's head as he sank, weak-legged, into the lifeless plastic chair. _He might not make it through the night_; The not-so-long-ago image of Sherlock swanning about in the middle of a crime-scene, pale skin as free from imperfection as ever and a delighted smile on his lips, flashed before John's retinas. _He might not make it through the night;_ And then a second image, not as real but frighteningly vivid, Sherlock's eyes closed, the fire gone, the life faded away like a puffed out candle._ He might not make it through the night;_ The memory of Sherlock's lips, beautiful in their desperation, pressed against his.

He ran a quivering hand across his face, bit his lip, and turned terrified eyes to the nurse. "Can I see him? Please? I _need _to see him,"

"He's heavily sedat-"

"I don't care," He cut her off. "I just need to see him,"

After watching his face, the nurse nodded infinitesimally and motioned for John to follow her. He heard Lestrade say something about contacting Mycroft, but the words turned to sludge in his ears as he passed through the coveted double-doors as though they were the golden gates to Heaven.

"He's in here," He ignored her as he passed by her to the door she was indicating to on their left. For one loaded second, he hesitated with his hand on the door-knob, before he swung open the door and stepped inside.

Slowly, John walked on unsteady legs to Sherlock's bedside. For a long moment, he stared at Sherlock's face, the ghostly pallor of his skin, the slight parting of his blue-tinged lips as he breathed, and eyes that never opened.

There was a plastic chair by the bed, just as uncomfortable-looking as the one he'd taken refuge in out in the waiting room, making the room look quite empty with no-one to fill it. He didn't know what to do with himself, so he sat down.

He didn't hesitate to grab Sherlock's hand, which, to his dismay, was dreadfully cold. He quickly began kneading it between his own hands, trying to improve circulation to the clammy fingers, wishing he could just feel Sherlock squeeze his hand back, but knowing it wouldn't happen.

He dropped the pale hand in despair, and then caught it up once more in a odd mixture of guilt and homesickness as though it were some sort of strange ritual. He reached down to the end of the bed, unfolded the blanket that lay there, and covered Sherlock with it. With painstaking gentleness, he tucked the blanket smoothly up to Sherlock's chest. The screen monitoring Sherlock's heartbeat was still pulsing slowly. Much too slowly.

"What do I say to you, when you can't say anything back?" He thought he saw the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitch, but when he checked again Sherlock was just as motionless as before.

He looked him over, lying serene and silent on the bed. Silent – it wasn't a state Sherlock was often seen in, though John had sometimes wished for it. But now he longed for Sherlock to begin his mile-a-minute rantings, arguments and just general noise. It looked wrong for him to be so still.

He was captivating, laying there, all porcelain skin and inky hair...and quietness. He didn't look hours from death. To anyone who didn't know him as well as John did, he would merely look asleep. But John knew that Sherlock continued his rapidity and movements well into sleep, with sleep-talking, and tossing and turning. Sherlock was never still. But now, under heavy sedation, he looked like a ghost of the man John knew.

There was no sharp tongue or witty banter, no quirked eyebrow or mockingly amused smirk. Beautiful blankness, and he had never been so resplendent, or so empty.

On some level, a part of him was so proud of Sherlock, proud and selfishly thankful that Sherlock had come after him, had tried to save him. However, a far greater part of him was just screaming.

_Stupid, stupid, selfless, courageous, stupid…_ John thought to himself like a mantra as he fought back the lump in his throat.

"Sherlock, why did you do it? The puzzle wasn't worth it. _I'm _not worth it, not worth _this_," His grip on the detective's hand tightened. "Nothing is worth this."

"Sherlock, wake up and give me a goddamn answer!" Because Sherlock was the one with the answers. John had only questions, babbling questions that ran over one another in their importance and noise.

"Just wake up. Please. I'll kill you if you die on me."

Without anymore words to say, Dr John Watson slumped his head in defeat, and held onto Sherlock's hand with an iron grip. He had a million things to tell the man, and no words to do it with.

The sound of footsteps, and the twisting of the door-handle broke him out of his thoughts, and he quickly dropped Sherlock's hand and whipped his head around to see Lestrade standing half-in, half-out of the open door.

"Watson," He spoke gruffly, an imploring expression on his face. "You need to eat, there's a cafeteria-"

"Not hungry."

Lestrade sighed and fully entered the room, the door closing behind him with a soft _click_. "Starving yourself won't help Sherlock in the slightest."

John didn't answer.

"He wouldn't want you to-"

"_Don't_," John's gaze took on such a venom that Lestrade, trained police-man that he was, had to restrain himself from taking a good step back. "Just, don't," He turned away, focusing once more on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock, of course, didn't move. But John could just imagine Sherlock's response to his behaviour. _Don't be stupid, John._ John's imagination painted the picture so perfectly, right down to Sherlock's scornful smirk and raised eyebrow, that he had to stifle a chuckle at his own thoughts.

Lestrade, although obviously uneasy in the situation, wasn't one to back down. "Just go and get a sandwich, or something. I'll stay here. If anything happens, I'll make sure you're the first to know."

He almost expected his mind to give him Sherlock's response once more, but Sherlock was still silent, completely motionless even in his own head. His jaw set, he nodded, the medical part of his brain telling him that doing so was much better for his health, and finally left the room.

The corridors of the hospital were nearly empty, only passing nurses broke the silence. It was quiet, and he liked it that way, but the thoughts bouncing around inside his skull were more than enough to make up for the lack of outside noise.

The light in the cafeteria was artificial, the darkness outside making the windows a reflective plane as he sat at one of the empty tables. He could see his reflection in the window, looking much older than he had the last time he'd seen himself. By now, the light rain that had begun at some point during the afternoon had become a heavy downpour, echoing his mood perfectly. Water was spattering against the windows, and John could hear the wind whistling angrily.

He cupped the mug of tea in his hands, watching ripples dance across the surface as his hands shook beyond his control. He grimaced, reprimanding himself, and clamped down his muscles. He pressed the mug to his lips, gulping it back hurriedly.

_He might not make it through the night._

The nurse's words still rang painfully in his head, and the sandwich he'd bought reluctantly grew dry in his mouth, sticking to the roof as he tried to swallow. The food got lodged somewhere in his throat, and he almost choked.

Eyes watering, and the sandwich firmly in the bin, he headed back to the room, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste. It seemed to take forever to reach the room once more, and even longer to cross the floor to Sherlock's bed, but as he sank back into the chair, time seemed to slow down and almost stop.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep in his chair, head resting on the side of Sherlock's mattress, because the next thing he knew there were shrieking monitors and shouting doctors streaming into the room. Hands were on his shoulders, pulling him up, and a voice was telling him he needed to get out of the room so that the doctors could do their job.

But he caught sight of Sherlock before the door shut in his face, and what he saw made his heart clench in his chest.

On the bed, Sherlock was shaking violently, pain written in every line of his terrifyingly pale face. His breathing was rapid and getting shallower with every breath. Nameless, faceless doctors were leaning over him, administering serums and performing CPR. The door closed before he could see any flicker of improvement. In fact, Sherlock seemed to be worsening. It made John want to scream with helplessness.

A hand gripped on his good shoulder, and Lestrade was pulling him back, away from the door.

"Watson, there's nothing you can do. Sherlock has the best health care imaginable, he'll be fine," But even John, hopeful as he was, could hear the dread in Lestrade's voice that betrayed his words.

The blood was rushing in his ears and his head was pounding. He felt thoroughly drained, tired, and terrified all at once. And none of it mattered, none of it, because Sherlock was dying behind those doors.

_He might not make it through the night._


	20. Slip Against The Current

Author's Note: First off, thankyou to all of you amazing reviwers - All of you made my week, so thankyou. Anway, here it is; The first chapter without a cliffhanger. Say it isn't so! But it's true, I am no longer mean and cruel. Also, to DANFLAN, and I suppose all of you, there'll be two more chapters after this one, not including the epilogue.

Okay, so I'll stop typing now and let you get on with chapter twenty. I hope you like it.

Chapter Twenty

Slip Against The Current

Each second that drained by felt like a lifetime. And, as the seconds lengthened, the icy fear chilling its way through John's veins and raising frightened goose-bumps on his skin seemed to freeze him in place as he watched the unopened door. Standing and not moving, hardly even daring to breathe as he listened to the muffled words and scuffled movement behind the door.

It was a good thing that the door was still closed, he frantically tried to tell himself, it was good. Because, so long as that door remained closed, then the doctors were still trying to save him. If Sherlock... If anything happened, then the doctors would simply call a time-of-death and leave. So long as that door was closed, Sherlock was still fighting.

But, as much as he drilled the words into his thoughts like a mantra, he couldn't shake of the chilling fear of _It's taking too long..._

He was alone in the hallway, Lestrade leaving ashen-faced to make phone-calls, and the wide, empty space made him feel even more alone. He felt physically better, probably due to the sleep and the fact that the bandages were putting just enough pressure on his painful wrists, but a barrage of emotions kept hitting him repeatedly in the very centre of his chest, battering him so he could barely breath. He recognised Survivor's Guilt – something he'd become intimately acquainted with during his Afghanistan days. It was an awful ache in the very depths of his stomach that rang with the '_If Only_'s.

He forced in a breath, blinking rapidly as he realised that his cheeks felt wet. He hadn't even noticed that the door had become fuzzy in his vision. Footsteps, wide-paced and determined, made him look up, sniffing, and still blinking eyelashes heavy with moisture he refused to actively recognise.

"John Watson."

"Hello, Mycroft," His voice was surprisingly strong, and it seemed that Mycroft Holmes chose to focus on that rather than the tear-tracks on John's cheeks although he knew that the older man had catalogued them. But Mycroft remained silent, leaning slightly on his umbrella – the sight of it almost made John laugh, almost. He was also without his assistant and her BlackBerry, he noticed.

He saw the older Holmes brother shoot the closed door with a sharp glance, and instantly recognised the problem; neither Holmes truly liked to ask questions or seem out of control. It was an easy problem to identify, once you'd lived with one for some time.

"I don't know what's going on," John told him, feeling stupid as he said it. It was idiotic to feel so, Mycroft didn't know either, but he felt like he _should_ know.

"Your hand is shaking," Was the only other comment the powerful man decided to give him, and it seemed to give Mycroft all the information he needed. John followed his line of sight to his hand, and blinked once as he saw that Mycroft was, unsurprisingly, correct. His hand, one that had been still for weeks now, was quivering like a leaf left in a thunderstorm.

"I guess this is the wrong type of stress," He muttered, looking away.

It seemed that the conversation had now ended, and for that John was glad. He didn't feel as though he had enough strength left in his body to do much other than stare at the door and hope.

He stared almost unblinkingly, until the edges of his vision became fuzzy. The only thing truly in focus was the door, and he'd imagined so many different scenarios that he had to shake himself to convince himself that he wasn't imaging the doctor opening the door and stepping out, looking quite grim.

Luckily, Mycroft didn't have the same trouble. "Mycroft Holmes," He held out a hand with his introduction, clearly having superior people skills to his younger brother. "I am Sherlock's next of kin, how is he?"

The doctor, looking quite uncomfortable underneath Mycroft's level gaze, took a deep breath before answering. "The poison in Mr Holmes' body was causing complications. We had to shock his heart back into sinus rhythm. Blood pressure is still far too low, and his temperature is below average, but he's back from the brink. He was briefly conscious, but he's slipped back into unconsciousness,"

"When will he wake?" John was glad Mycroft asked the question, he didn't want to hear his voice shake as it undoubtedly would.

"It's difficult to say, Sir, Mr Holmes' vitals _are_ stabilising but much too slowly to make any assumptions at the moment,"

"Can we see him?" John didn't even realise he'd spoken until it was too late to snatch the words back. Was that his voice? It sounded...lost, empty, and a thousand other words had he access to a thesaurus for misery.

The doctor, whose name John felt he should know but couldn't summon up the energy to care, gave a curt nod, looking anywhere but at John's face. That was something John had had experience with – people never liked to look directly into a grieving face.

But John didn't dwell. In fact, the thought was gone as soon as his hand clasped around the door-handle. He half-turned before entering the room once more, and wasn't entirely surprised to see the corridor empty once more. Mycroft had ascertained that his brother would live another day, and left without even a whisper of sound. John entered the room.

He stood just inside the door. Sherlock was still dreadfully pale, but something was different. The last time John had seen the man, he'd been banging down death's door. But the whimpers and groans of pain were gone, his face was relaxed and he wasn't shaking. His chest was rising and falling steadily, but still slightly more shallow than usual.

After standing there for a long moment, he pulled up the chair close to Sherlock's bedside and sat down. It wasn't really as if his being there could _do_ anything to help Sherlock, but it helped ease John's mind a bit to sit beside him, knowing Sherlock was still breathing. In the very least, John wanted to think that Sherlock wouldn't mind. In fact, he didn't even care if he _did_ mind – because if he did mind, he would have to bloody well wake up to complain about it.

For a long time, he sat there, holding Sherlock's unresponsive hand and searching the man for any hints at movement...a twitch of the eye, or flinch of the hand clasped in his. But, of course, there was nothing.

* * *

Regaining consciousness was like pulling himself up from the murky depths of a deep lake, the heavy water dragging down on his soaked and exhausted muscles as he struggled and kicked to the surface.

Sherlock forced his mind to the surface, wading through the thick dregs of sleep, pain, what felt like drugs, and disjointed memories floating through his brain.

He was tired and he was sore. His limbs were heavy and the light that blared through his eyelids hurt the nerves at the back of his eye. The pain fell all the way through into the back of his head, which was already ringing with blasting, painful, noise without the light making it any worse.

Death apparently looked a lot like a blurry white room, and for a few moments he felt sorely cheated. But, as his mind began to focus, he stared up at a blurry white ceiling and took note of the nose-tingling sterile scent of the room, no doubt courtesy of too much cleaning. A hospital. He was in a hospital. Right, so, not dead. Good. And, judging by the brightness of the room, he would have to guess it was midday.

But w_hy _was he in a hospital?

He wriggled his toes and then his fingers, following afterwards with a bodily check that everything worked. His legs shifted, bending easily at the knee. He took a deep breath – his lungs were clear and unharmed. He made to move his arms, but while the left lifted with ease, the right ached as he tried to even shift it an inch. Inclining his head, and noting his stiff neck as nothing more than just an unfamiliar bed, he took in a large white bandage that covered his right shoulder entirely. Hmm. How annoying. Ignoring the ache, he lifted his right arm regardless and made sure that all of his motor functions were working. Excellent. He felt slightly cold but, due to the salty sweaty smell to his skin and hair, he knew he had recently been feverish. His chest hurt; he pushed back at the material covering his torso. Two angry square patches of discolouration glared up at him, defibrillators had been used on him.

_Defibrillation: To stop the fibrillation of a heart and restore normal contractions through the use of drugs or an electric shock._

He'd been in a matter of life and death. Interesting.

Fractured memories before floated to the forefront of his thoughts, confusion thwarting clarity of any sort.

"_So, you're no use to me now, my little detective. And you're as good as dead. You'll be immobile in minutes, burning alive. And you will be burning, Sherlock Holmes. But it'll take days for you to die. And I'll be able to kill your precious John Watson before your very eyes,"_

He's been poisoned, that much was obvious. By Moriarty - the voice in his memories was clearly him. But where had he been? And what had happened to John?

Gun-shots rang through his memory. But _who _had been shot? Himself, obviously, but who had the second shot hit? Urgh, why was his brain so _slow_? He made to move his hands to his hair, to tug on it, to pull out the illusive thoughts, but something snagged him; An I.V.

_An intravenous drip - The continuous infusion of fluids, with or without medications, through an IV access device. Used to correct dehydration or an electrolyte imbalance, to deliver medications, or for blood transfusion._

The liquid in the bag attached to the needle was clear. Therefore, not a blood-transfusion. Had to be the antidote to the poison. He craned his neck, trying to read the label, but couldn't quite reach. _Damn_, he couldn't figure out the poison if he didn't know the antidote.

Gun-shot, Gun-shot, Gun-shot... _Who had died?_

Twisting his head, he tried to sit up. Then, relief calmed his heart as a head of bedraggled, brown hair filled his vision. John slept in the chair beside him, his head and arms resting on the bed, one hand lying open beside his. John had held his hand.

John looked as though he hadn't slept in a year or so. His clothes were rumpled and filthy, strands of his hair unarranged and splayed across his forehead. His neck was laying at an odd angle, his clothing was disheveled - he'd slept here by his bed. His dark eyes were underscored by bruises - he hadn't been sleeping long. His clothes were the same ones he last remembered seeing him in - John hadn't gone home.

His hand moved, brushing against John's. Then, with a gasp, John sat up, eyes wide yet still hooded with sleep, staring unseeingly at the region behind Sherlock's left ear. Blinking rapidly, he shifted his gaze across to his face.

"Sherlock," He whispered, clouds of relief in his eyes. A small smile graced the ex-soldier's face, worry stopping it from being the fully-fledged grin.

"You look tired," Sherlock noted, his voice scratching from disuse.

"Yeah, worrying does that," His voice was warm, but the underlying note of concern in the words made the playful attitude less convincing. "It's about time you woke up."

"How long have I been out?"

"I'm...not sure," John smiled sheepishly, absentmindedly finger-combing his hair. "I kinda lost track of time."

"You don't own a watch?"

John shot him a look that heavily implied the words '_Shut up, Sherlock'_. He piped down making John's eyebrows raise in shock at him actually complying.

"How do you feel?" John asked, clearly slipping into his Doctor persona.

"Fine," He nodded firmly, not_ quite _meeting John's eyes.

"Are you sure?" John asked, worry dotting through his eyes.

"Yes." He said it in such a way that would have closed the matter had it been anyone else. However, it _wasn't_ anyone else. It was John. And he could see the disbelief in his roommate's eyes, and the wish to continue pressing the subject. But something in his own face must have dissuaded John, because he remained silent.

"What happened?" Sherlock ventured after a few seconds of silence, his broken memories nagging at the back of his brain.

"You don't remember?"

"Not much. I was poisoned, judging by the I.V of an antidote. But it was a rare poison, because the place where the hypodermic needle is inserted is still newly broken skin. That tells me that it was only inserted twelve to fifteen hours ago. I suppose I _could _have only been here for that long, but your clothes are too rumpled and the stubble on your chin has grown. You were clean-shaven last I saw you. And your clothes haven't changed either - you haven't been home since I was admitted. So, I've been here about...two days, maybe three."

Ignoring the slightly gob-smacked on John's face, Sherlock grinned. _This _was what he excelled at. What fed him. He could feel it, uncurling in the back of his mind. That...that thing that made him Sherlock.

"I was shot, by Moriarty obviously. But the last thing I remember, properly, is Moriarty standing over me and telling me that you were going to die. You are here, Moriarty is not. That means you must have gotten free before he could do anything to you, due to your general lack of injuries. And since I heard a gun-shot, I assume you shot him. If Lestrade had gotten free, he would have tried to take him into custody. Moriarty was too smart for that, he would have gotten free, but not before killing you to get at me. You are still alive, hence Moriarty is not."

"Amazing," John shook his head in bewilderment. "You've been poisoned, sedated, unconscious for _days_...and yet you still manage to deduce everything."

"Not everything," Sherlock corrected him. "There's still the mystery of why you and Lestrade were kidnapped," He threw John a pointed glance. He knew _exactly _how and why John and Lestrade were taken, but it'd be interesting to hear how John'd explain himself.

John bit his lip, a guilty expression on his face. "I was worried," He sat back in the uncomfortable-looking chair, eyes cast on the floor. "And I knew where you were going. It was obvious you didn't want anyone to come after you, but I couldn't just let you _die_. So I told Lestrade, we took an unmarked police car, parked a street away from the park, got out...and I assume we were attacked from behind. That's all I remember before waking up in that god awful cellar."

"You came after me," Sherlock noted, his voice oddly quiet and carefully modulated. He'd already known this. "Why?"

John spluttered. "Because, funnily enough, I actually care whether you live or die! Crazy, I know."

The biting sarcasm would have made Sherlock grin widely had these been any other circumstances. Instead, he gave a small smile and rolled his eyes subtly. "Death is a dull, dreary affair. I will have nothing whatsoever to do with it."

John muffled a laugh, keeping his eyes on the bedcovers in a useless attempt to keep his amusement hidden from the detective. After a few seconds, the smile faded and he looked to be considering something. Just as Sherlock was about to ask what, John looked back to him. "Why did _you_ come after _me_?"

"Because..." Sherlock hesitated, possibly for one of the first times in his life, before meeting John's intense gaze. "Of all the people in my life, you're the only one I really want to stay," John didn't break his gaze, something indefinable in his eyes. But Sherlock continued before he could say anything. "John…I'm sorry." That seemed to shock John even more, his eyes widening largely before he caught himself. "For a lot of things. And enjoy this, because you _won't _be hearing it again. But I'm sorry, and-"

"Stop," Sherlock clamped his mouth shut at John's instruction, if only to try and stem the flow of idiotic babbling that was falling from his lips. "Just…shut up. Please. You _really_ don't have to apologise."

"Yes. I do," Their eyes met, and the intensity of Sherlock's gaze blew John away.

He'd never figure out how the man could put so much into one look, but right now it was difficult for him to even think past the startling fact that he had, in fact and quite accidentally, fallen for Sherlock. And it made complete sense, and absolutely no sense whatsoever.

The initial shock might have worn off but it had only been replaced by a much deeper ache, which had only intensified with the sense of loss unlike anything he'd ever felt before that he'd been feeling for the past two days. With nothing else to think about for two days, looking down at that pale face that never so much as twitched, full and coherent understanding had finally arrived.

He knew what Sherlock had come to mean to him; the jittering spot in his chest – unavoidable and impossible to ignore – was testimony to that. He didn't think he could say it out loud, but he knew.

"Okay, then," He nodded slowly, knowing that Sherlock's stubbornness was matched by no man. "Fine, you've apologised. And I accept. Happy?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, pulling his whole face into an expression that told John he wasn't going to be satisfied with that. But, as John met his gaze unflinchingly, Sherlock seemed to put it aside inside his own mind and moved onto more pressing matters.

"Any chance of a cup of tea around here?"

And John had to laugh.


	21. Something In The Way You Look At Me

Author's Note: Okay, very little _really_ happens in this chapter because of the whole In Hospital deal. So this is the way that I'm going to show time passing by in the hospital. Thankyou so much to everyone for reviewing, it's so close to the end now that I really don't want to post them if it means it ending, but, here it is, Chapter Twenty-One and I hope you enjoy.

Chapter Twenty-One

Something In The Way You Look At Me

His heart hammering, pulse racing at an unusually frantic level, and beads of sweat trickling down from his now matted locks of inky hair to the pale nape of his neck, Sherlock gasped his way back into consciousness. He jerked upright, his eyes searching every inch of his surroundings in a phrenetic attempt to figure out his location. His mind whirred violently, trying to take in the darkness and realign himself.

"Sherlock?" Although the voice was muffled, groggy with sleep, it still made Sherlock's breath stutter out in a startled gasp. He snapped his head to the left, towards the source of the voice, and felt the tension drain from his shoulders as he saw John's face in the darkness. He slumped back onto his pillow, struggling to set his rapid breathing back to rights.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked again, after waiting patiently for Sherlock's answer that wouldn't come.

"Nothing, John," Sherlock closed his eyes, fighting down the embarrassed flush that was threatening to spill across his pale cheeks. He felt entirely idiotic – it had only been a _dream_ for Gods sake...it had just _felt _real. There was no need for his heart to be hammering so wildly, nor his hands to be shaking. "Go back to sleep," He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, then another and another, desperate for some calming air.

"You hyperventilating, don't lie to me."

"...I'm...not."

"Do I have to tell you how _not_ convincing you sound?"

Sherlock managed to open his eyes to glare half-heartedly at John. But as he did so, his imagination painted the gashes and blood across John's face that had plagued his sleep. He closed his eyes once again, pressing his quivering fingertips to his temple and shaking his head to dispel the image. "I'm fine."

Then John's arms, warm and comforting, wrapped around his shaking shoulders as he tried to calm the irrational fear that was freezing him. "Just breathe," Was the simple instruction, and he followed it without thinking. _In, out, in, out, in, out_...

The arms squeezed tighter, John pulling him up slightly as his head sank forward and he leaned into the reassuring embrace. "I'm fine," He protested weakly, not even trying to squirm away as he knew he would have before. "I'm fine, it's stupid, I-"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

Sherlock bit down on his lower lip, nodding himself into silence as he focused once more on the sound of his still too fast breathing and tried to match it to John's steady breath that was ghosting regularly across the side of his neck.

"Are you okay?" John asked again after the room began to fill with only the sounds of their breathing slowly beginning to align.

Not quite sure how to respond to that, Sherlock just nodded quickly in reply and kept his eyes on the white covers that were twisted around his long legs. A sudden and furious rush of embarrassment made itself known just then, and he stiffened by John's side, unable to move or look the other man in the eye. "I'm _fine_, John."

If John heard the sudden sharp edge in Sherlock's voice, he ignored it. "I'm sure you are," The tight grip around Sherlock's shoulders loosened slightly, but it didn't disappear. "You want to go back to sleep?"

Sherlock froze immediately. Nothing on earth could make him possibly want to go back to sleep; he wasn't a man who enjoyed sleep at even the best of times, but in these unfamiliar surroundings and with his imagination running haywire, he was more reluctant than ever.

John breathed out heavily. "You _should_ sleep," But Sherlock heard the sense of defeat in John's voice – both men knew how little effect the sentence would have on Sherlock.

All Sherlock really wanted to do was just stay exactly as he was now, with John pressed flush against him like the world's most effective teddy-bear (Though he doubted John would appreciate the comparison) and the silence oddly comforting. So it was all he could do to not protest when John's arms withdrew from around him.

In the few moments of coldness that followed, he managed to resign himself to a lonely sleepless night. But then a tug on the covers drew his attention away from a patch on the wall that he'd been staring at in an attempt to hide his embarrassment.

"John?"

"Move over."

He didn't protest, simply moving across the bed so that John could climb in next to him. This probably wasn't allowed, but Sherlock had never once cared about hospital rules – he was practically every doctor's worst nightmare - or really rules in general, and he wasn't about start now because of this. The warmth that accompanied John's presence, the rise and fall of John's chest as he breathed; it was...nice.

It was quite a shock, Sherlock realised, just how many times he'd been in willing physical contact with John since their meeting. Not even including the episode of falling asleep together on the sofa, they'd pulled each other across London, hands had been offered in help, comfort or acceptance, without so much as a second thought, and…well, when…anyway…

His own forward actions were surprising, in retrospect. Sherlock had almost never been touched. Not in any way that mattered. In fact, he was almost uncomfortable with it. Touch was something outside his normal realm of experience, something he still felt uncertain about, as though he were treading on forbidden territory. But he hadn't ever even thought about touching John, it had always just seemed natural. Further proof of how comfortable he was around John.

"Thanks," He mumbled under his breath, although the word held a thousand meanings, fighting his eyelids as they began to fall. He wasn't sure whether John had heard, but he felt the man relax beside him into the mattress. Sherlock held himself perfectly still, unable to be at ease like John. He didn't want to sleep again, and he was more than content to remain like this. John was here, alive and warm and _here_.

"Comfy?" Sherlock managed after a short while, feeling himself enough to smirk into the darkness.

"Very."

Sherlock snorted lightly in response.

"Sleep, Sherlock," Even though Sherlock couldn't see John's face, he could easily picture the determined expression of the doctor that was surely accompanying those words.

"And if I say no?"

"Sleep."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not at all intending to follow John's advice. Instead, he made a silent compromise and allowed himself to relax somewhat into the bed. He closed his eyes for good measure, quite sure that John would be more satisfied by that.

He almost thought he had the other man fooled, but then he felt John shift and one hand grasp his under the covers. Sherlock blinked at the unfamiliar contact, but entwined his long fingers with John's without fuss. It was...odd, all this contact, but he didn't care. It was good, he decided firmly. And, with that, he let his head fall back onto the pillow against John's shoulder.

But it was still a long time before he let himself fall asleep again.

* * *

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock's drawl, languid yet sharp with irritation, was what caught John's attention away from the Sudoku puzzle that he'd been absent-mindedly filling in for the past hour or so and made him look to the now open door.

Mycroft Holmes stood in the frame of the door, looking suitably dramatic as always, with his hands perched calmly on his customary black umbrella in front of him. John watched as the powerful man's sharp eyes scanned across them both - taking in the laptop on Sherlock's knees that John had smuggled in for the bored detective once Sherlock had been able to manoeuvre his arm again, the very comfortable position of 'feet up' on Sherlock's bed that John had relaxed himself into, and finally the state of his younger brother himself. "Can I not visit my only brother when he is in hospital?"

"You can," Sherlock nodded, fixing his elder brother with the piercing blue stare that John knew he saved for encounters such as these, before moving his gaze to the barest tips of his fingers and feigning great disinterest. "But you never do."

"Well, I am here now."

"Clearly."

It always made John's head hurt whenever he saw Sherlock and Mycroft together. For two clear reasons; One was the constant mind-games they played, the rhetorical question and the evasive answers that their warped conversations consisted of. (One brother could insult the other, and John wouldn't figure it out until after Mycroft had left) And the second reason was just how different yet similar they were. He supposed that this was the same with all siblings – individuality warring with a shared upbringing – but it seemed all the more intense with these two brothers. Then again, _everything_ seemed more intense whenever these two were involved.

Because they both had that look about them. The strange, terrifying, look that said _I know everything about you, I know everything about everyone you've ever met or cared about, and I can use that information to bring you to your knees…_ But while Mycroft was cool, calm and collected to his very core, Sherlock almost shimmered with the energy and arrogance he exuded daily.

Sighing at his brother, Mycroft turned his viper gaze to John instead. "I trust you are recovered, Dr Watson."

John frowned, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows, and shook his head. "It's not me who needs to recover," He sent Sherlock a loaded look which the other man promptly ignored. As he spoke, his fingers traced the space just under the edges of his jumper where his wrist-bandages were concealed. He saw Mycroft's eyes key into the movement, and immediately snapped his hands to his sides instead.

"I would not suggest sending my brother any hints, Dr Watson. He is far too stubborn for such things."

"And don't I know it," John grinned his laughter at Sherlock, to which the consulting detective sent him a withering look. John just shrugged his shoulders in response. Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned his attention to his brother who had watched their silent exchange in keen interest.

"You've yet to answer my question, Mycroft," Sherlock noted, managing to look suitable disparaging even in his bedridden state. Then again, John doubted that Sherlock would ever let himself look anything less when faced with his brother. "Why are you here?"

Mycroft nodded once, straightening his spine infinitesimally. So small was the movement that John barely caught it, although the shift in the man's mood was almost tangible. "While I _am_ here as a concerned sibling-" Sherlock's loud scoff cut him off from his speech, but he resumed without as much as a second glance at his brother. "I am also here on behalf of the government. My seniors-" Again Sherlock made another disbelieving sound in the back of his throat, and this time John was hard-pushed to not join him. He was fairly certain that Mycroft Holmes had no seniors. He was even more certain that, in the unlikely case that he _did_ have seniors, that he wouldn't be doing leg-work for them.

However, to this noise, Mycroft allowed himself a small tut at his brother before he continued. "My seniors have the body of James Moriarty on ice."

It was as though all the heat in the room had suddenly turned to ice from those few words. The lingering smile that had still been on John's lips fell, and the well-hidden amused spark in had been in Sherlock's eyes died. Even Mycroft managed to look that much more sombre, and John hadn't even thought that possible of the man.

"Why would that interest me?" Sherlock asked shortly, his deep voice sounding hollow. John supposed that if he too spoke now that his voice would be in much the same manner. Just the mere thought of Moriarty was raising goose-bumps on the skin of his arms and was sending uncomfortable shivers down his spine. He guessed that Sherlock would say his reaction was illogical – Moriarty was dead. But that man, no matter how dead, had rampaged through their lives and brought only pain and misery.

Then again, maybe Sherlock wouldn't think it at all illogical…As John moved his gaze to Sherlock he found that Sherlock's eyes were watching him in both concern and a thinly veiled search for his own brand of reassurance. He just hoped that he could provide some for the man.

Whatever Sherlock saw in his returning look must have satisfied him somewhat, because those blue eyes slid back to Mycroft once more and he cocked his head, awaiting his brother's reply.

Mycroft, to his credit, didn't look at all surprised at Sherlock's response. Merely wearisome. "Sherlock…"

"Mycroft, if it's all the same to you, I have no interest in Moriarty past the fact that he is, in fact, dead. And, now that he is dead, he is of no interest to me _whatsoever_. Furthermore, _you_ are of no interest to me, so again I must ask, _why are you here_?"

The barest tightening around Mycroft's lips was the only sign the powerful man gave to even suggest that he was irritated with his younger sibling. "I realise that this is difficult for you to believe, Sherlock, but it is acceptable to show emotions."

"I will if you will," Sherlock shot back at him, a single eyebrow raised in challenge.

"Do not be childish."

"Childish? I'm not the one who carries around an umbrella like some warped security blanket," John would have said that Sherlock spat the words at his brother, were it not for the fact that he knew that Sherlock wouldn't deign to waste so much effort on Mycroft of all people.

"No," Mycroft, seeming to give up on any attempts at conversation with his brother, made for the door once more. "But _you_ have something on which you are _much_ more dependant. Good day," The door closed behind him, and the atmosphere lightened considerably.

"Not a moment too soon," Sherlock muttered, returning his attention to the laptop on his knees. He spared John a small glance, before amusement quirked his lips. John, unable to help himself, smiled back. "I certainly hope it was something I said."

* * *

John hadn't brought up the option of their sharing the bed once again and, while at the time Sherlock had been disappointed, he was more than thankful for it when he awoke from another nightmare the next night. If John slept in the chair by his side then he wasn't disturbed by his movements tonight, having been in a deep sleep that spoke of exhaustion born from worry ever since his eyelids had slid closed five hours and twenty seven minutes ago. He didn't want to wake the other man up, not again. And while it was harder to bring his breathing back to normal tonight, it settled warmer in his chest knowing that he was putting John before himself. That was new. Very new. But interesting.

His eyes, still slightly foggy with the lingering remnants of sleep, traced the outline of John in the darkness. The more he watched, the more his sight adjusted to the darkness and the easier he was able to make out John sleeping face. John looked peaceful, though lines of worry were written across his face as though he were unable to stop thinking even in unconsciousness.

He looked down, his eyes drawn to the warm hand that was laid on top of his forearm, the fingers softly clenching and unclenching around him. That hadn't been there when he'd fallen asleep. John had, quite unconsciously, held onto him. He smiled, but as his gaze drifted along each line of John's fingers, he frowned as he caught sight of a neatly bound bandage tied about John's wrist.

Curiosity warring with concern, Sherlock shifted his hand very slowly and caught John's hand in his own, keen eyes searching the oddity. Showing dexterity even in his abused state, his slender fingers made quick work of the bandage. The material fell away to reveal a violent red mark across John's skin, already beginning to heal if the amount of dried blood was anything to go by. A burn caused by friction, that much was obvious, but around the wrists? That suggested binding. John had been tied up, he'd known that already, but he'd had no idea of how severe the wounds had been. John must have fought incredibly hard against his bonds to create such carnage around his wrists.

Sherlock blinked as the sight of John's wrists began to blur, and was hit by a hot spark of shame as he realised that his eyes were watering. But the embarrassment soon crumbled to the wave of guilt that followed. John had done that to himself to get to _him_, to save _him_.

To be honest, there wasn't much he could remember past the stunning pain of the poison Moriarty had fed him. Flashes of John's desperate voice calling his name, and the realisation that he wasn't getting out alive were all he could fully recall. But he hadn't been told what John had gone through, and he doubted that the ex-army-doctor would ever tell him. He had some odd notion of protecting Sherlock from those kinds of things. _Ridiculous_.

But for once, the realisation that he _wasn't_ going to find something out didn't bother him all that much.

Careful not to wake John, Sherlock moved the pads of his pale fingers across the gash that would surely scar John even more, an unfamiliar tenderness in his caress. He gently re-bound John's wrist, setting the hand softly back onto the mattress. He traced the bandage again with his fingers, before clasping John's hand tightly in his own and squeezing it tightly.

He thought, before he fell back into unconsciousness, that he felt John squeeze back. He was too tired to know whether it was just a figment of his imagination or not, but the thought made him smile his way widely into sleep


	22. Tripping On The Urge To Feel Alive

Author's Notes: Okay, I know that in romance stories and the like, that the two _'lovers'_ are supposed to have The Talk. Capitalisation intended. But, seriously, can you imagine a realistic The Talk between John and Sherlock? Talking about _feelings_ and _undying love_? In all honesty, I couldn't. And if you could, then what higher-functioning sociopath were _you_ watching? But, I had to give the poor guys something. They've spent a few chapters being all mixed up about it all, and even though I'm being much nicer to them now the questions are still somewhat unanswered. I enjoy the idea of them being able to know what the other feels without discussing it, but when is life ever that simple? So, in this chapter there's a little talk (Note the lack of capitalisation) between the two of them. I tried to keep it in character, and I hope I succeeded. I've never had a The Talk, what with me being a socially incompetent fifteen year old (sixteen next thursday, but that's beside the point) so I just hope that it's realistic enough to be halfway convincing.

Anyway, I've been rambling on for long enough now. Here's chapter twenty-two, the penultimate chapter, and I really hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tripping On The Urge To Feel Alive

Sherlock had always hated hospitals. They were such dull things. Filled with hours of tedium, and pointless lying in beds. He thoroughly disliked them. This had, during his childhood years, caused him a lot of bother. Because Sherlock had been a child who had always managed to find himself in situations where the end result was usually awakening in a hospital bed with his mother worrying, his father scolding, and Mycroft rolling his eyes.

He'd gotten much more adept at avoiding injuries as he'd grown older, and when he'd been unable to evade harm he'd taught himself enough of first aid to keep himself out of hospital.

There were, of course, times when he was unable to patch himself up. Those times had become less and less since John – Sherlock had found having a doctor for a roommate to be most helpful. And, right now being one of those few times where neither he nor John could do anything, he had to grit his teeth and bear it.

But he didn't have to be happy about it!

The boredom of it all was _hateful!_ Dreary, painfully so, and so lagging that he even resorted to counting the ceiling tiles (109) to alleviate some of his boredom once the nurses had discovered his laptop and confiscated it '_for the good of his health'_.

So it was with great glee that he greeted John as he entered the cell of a hospital room he'd been confined to on the third day of his being awake. Because today was the day which his doctors had decided he was fit enough to go back home. John, who had spent the night at 221b so he could collect Sherlock's clothes for his departure, held up the polythene bag with the air of a man holding a great treasure.

The ex-soldier threw the bag to him, Sherlock plucking it out of the air with ease before it could collide with his face. He tipped the contents out. _Excellent! _He had been somewhat concerned that John would bring him jeans or something else that the doctor would describe as comfy and Sherlock would turn his nose up at. While he didn't particularly care about his appearance, he gave a much more professional image when he was in a suit. And no-one would listen to an ill-dressed man with his already difficult to understand personality. Also, he had the distinct misfortune of looking slightly too tall and too gangly when in simple jeans and a t-shirt.

He nodded his thanks to John and slipped out of the bed into the adjoining bathroom to change, eager to be out of this wretched hospital gown he'd been confined to. He winced slightly as he pulled the material over the large white bandage over his right shoulder, but that was all. He felt much better once fully dressed, straightening his jacket as he left the bathroom once again. "Thank God," He muttered, throwing the discarded hospital gown into a bundled up heap in the centre of his un-made bed.

"Feel better?"

"Much."

A knock on the door to the room moved his grin away from John. It moved further into non-existence as Lestrade entered the room. While he was satisfied to know that the man was alive and well, he didn't necessarily want him in his hospital room. Then again, at least he had arrived once Sherlock was dressed and presentable once more. It was so difficult to maintain superiority from a hospital bed in a ridiculous gown.

"Lestrade," He nodded to him, turning away from the Detective Inspector and back to John. "Shoes?"

"Here," John pulled his shoes from another bag, throwing them onto the bed.

Sherlock scooped them up and set about pulling them on. As he did so, he looked back to Lestrade who had yet to say anything. "Yes?"

"You're looking good," Lestrade noted, leaning back against the wall. Ah, so he was intending to stay a while then. Damn.

"Yes," He nodded once more, standing himself – John had already snagged the only chair. Git.

"You, too," Lestrade addressed John this time. "Better, I mean."

John nodded, a veneer of embarrassment tinting the tips of his ears. "Yeah, well… better circumstances, aren't they?"

Lestrade just nodded his agreement while Sherlock eyed John curiously. What did that mean? He was interrupted by his perusal of the man by Lestrade once again speaking. "I have something for you, Sherlock," He pulled from his pocket a clear plastic bag. Sherlock's face split into a wide grin when he saw the contents of it. "Just been cleared as non-evidence," He handed over the bag with Sherlock's phone in it.

Sherlock took it, hiding his eagerness well. There was still battery in the thing, and it was beeping new messages at him that were now a few days old. From Mycroft. Dull. He rolled his eyes and deleted them with a few easy clicks before sliding the phone away again. As he did so, he placed his attention into the conversation John and Lestrade had struck up during his silence.

"How're your wrists? That was an awful lot of blood."

"What? Oh, fine. They're fine," John's forehead creased, his fingertips tracing the edges of his jumper, something he did whenever anyone mentioned his wrists. "Didn't you get hurt?"

"Just minor rope-burn, nothing serious," Lestrade shrugged, before tilting his head in the direction of Sherlock. "He been eating?"

Sherlock frowned. He was _not_ a child!

"Barely. Then again, it _is_ hospital food…"

Sherlock's glare moved to John this time. "I _am_ here, you know."

"I'm aware," John smirked at him, looking entirely too amused for Sherlock's liking.

"Then kindly refrain from speaking about me as though I'm not," Sherlock levelled a steady glare at him. It must not have been as effective as he thought, because John's smile never wavered. "And just to remind you," He turned to Lestrade. "I was perfectly capable of looking after myself before John came along, so I don't see why you check with him as though he's my carer."

"Isn't he?"

Sherlock treated the comment with the all the dignity it deserved and ignored him. Admittedly – though admitting it to Lestrade was unthinkable - John being around had massively improved his health, but he'd managed just fine by himself beforehand.

"Am I allowed to leave yet?" He asked John, turning his back fully on Lestrade. He could hear the man chuckling behind him.

"Don't ask me, ask your doctor."

"_You _are my doctor," Their eyes locked at his words, both realising how many meanings his words could hold. Then John blinked, breaking the contact, and he continued on his side of the argument.

"Not according to the hospital."

"The hospital are idiots," Sherlock rolled his eyes. He really needed to get something legal that said that John made his medical decisions. He had favours he could call in for such things.

"The hospital saved your life."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, ending the argument in the single gesture. "Yes, yes, I'm very grateful. But _can I leave_?" He stressed the final three words.

"I'm surprised you haven't broken out, actually," Lestrade commented lightly. "I was expecting to arrive, and then have to send out a search party for you," He raised a pointed eyebrow at Sherlock. "I've had to do it before."

John looked at Sherlock expectantly, awaiting an explanation with an expression that showed far too much enjoyment for Sherlock's tastes. But as he grinned warmly at Sherlock, Sherlock felt his stomach flip and his mouth grow dry. He licked his lips, looking away. He was convincing enough an actor to be able to pass the action off as annoyance…thankfully. He really didn't need Lestrade figuring things out before he had a firm understanding of them himself.

As though to make up for landing him in hospital, luck seemed to be momentarily on his side as a nurse then poked her head around the door and asked him to come sign the discharge forms, allowing him to escape any embarrassing explanations. (Actually, not _that_ embarrassing really – Lestrade had never found him even once)

He followed her without a second thought, enthusiastic to be going, and signed his name with even more terrible and hurried handwriting than usual. His laptop was handed back to him, thank God, just as John reappeared at his side sans Lestrade.

"Ready to go?" John asked, leaning forward against the nurses' counter and looking up at him. Their arms brushed as Sherlock shouldered the laptop case.

"Already out the door," He grinned, grabbing hold of the top of John's arm without even thinking about it and pulling him in the direction of the exits. He heard John tut lightly, but decided to ignore it in lieu of concentrating on his escape.

The journey in the cab back home was quiet, John apparently locked in his thoughts and Sherlock perfectly content to seize this opportunity to examine his roommate. While before, watching John had fizzled his stomach and clenched his chest, now seeing John brought a totally different feeling. A twinge of fear, a bit of desperation, and the terrible feeling that he was holding something that he wanted more than anything, but it could be torn from him at any moment.

He needed to say something…

But he couldn't.

Because he was _scared_.

_Scared_! Sherlock Holmes was scared. He had to admit it, if only to himself. Scared, terrified and every other adjective that could possibly sum up his feelings right now. Because he'd never been so terrified of someone's reaction to him before. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, and from the corner of his eye saw John follow the movement.

He had kissed him. He had never kissed anyone before. Anyone. Ever. The realisation that hadn't hit him in all of the madness of the past few days now collided into him with the force of a tidal wave. He. Had. Kissed. John. Watson

…And John had kissed him back. Of that he was certain. But the same insecurities from before were revolving once again in his head. Had it just been something caught up in the moment? Or was there something there?

He didn't _know_! He closed his eyes in aggravation, then reopened them to find John looking at him in curiosity. He didn't answer, just nodded a general _I'm fine_ and instead moved his gaze away from the man's face and to the reflection of John in the cabbie's mirror. He saw the ex-army-doctor continue to watch him intently, before turning away once more.

But he was certain he wasn't imagining things when the taxi pulled up in front of 221 and John grasped his hand to pull him out of the taxi (Not a frequent occurrence as it was) and held on for just a few extra seconds. Nor was he imagining it when John hesitated a little too long before leaving the room to make tea, as though scared that if he turned his back then Sherlock would disappear.

And he certainly wasn't imagining anything when, as John handed him a mug of tea and sank onto the sofa beside him, that John sat much closer to him than he ever had before. _So_ much closer than before.

Conversation drifted from one unimportant thing to the next, but just then, everything was the most important thing in the world. Just _being_ there was the most important thing.

They talked, and talked and _talked_, about the most ridiculous and strange of subjects, burbling on about anything and everything that popped into their heads, laughing wildly into the night. Their words knocked together, running over each other as they talked over one another, each sentence being interrupted by another thought one had or another laugh the other had to declare. Their voices rasped, throats had to keep being re-cleared, because they were just talking _so _much.

Because they were suddenly so shaken, so tense and unsteady. And so very, very frightened. Because they both had come so close to losing the other.

Their hands grazed against each other every few words, as though ensuring that they _were_ here, both taking comfort from the warmth at their side. Their gazes never wavered, drinking in the other to be _absolutely sure_. Sure that this wasn't some trick, some painful illusion. And if they talked fast enough, or laughed loud enough, it could be real.

They did fall quiet, though, in the end. After several hours worth of cups of tea and talking. When words held no more meaning than noise, and laughter became a buzz in the ear, and the sudden silence hummed around them. Sherlock's eyes, still unable to move from John's face, just to be _sure_, began to droop as the ever-irritating need to sleep finally started to catch up with him. But he fought against them, terrified to let them close.

Because Sherlock didn't want to fall into sleep, didn't want to be left in his own thoughts. Thoughts that stabbed him with fear, of what it would be like to be forced to live without the man next to him.

But, soon enough, the detective's fatigue was so noticeable that John couldn't ignore it any longer. He'd been selfish so far, he'd seen Sherlock's tiredness but hadn't done anything about it. He'd wanted to keep Sherlock awake, not wanting to let him go. But now his conscience pressed down on his chest – Sherlock needed to sleep.

Before Sherlock could even notice what he was doing, he fixed his determination and slid an arm around the other man's waist and pulled him up off of the sofa. He'd lived with the man long enough to know that getting Sherlock to sleep was an almost herculean effort, and could rarely be done without physically pulling the detective away from the sofa.

"John...what-what are you doing?" Sherlock stuttered in confusion as he was lifted from the sofa and propped against John's side.

"You need to rest," John explained as Sherlock managed to balance himself and begin walking alongside him wearily. But he didn't allow an inch between them as he steered the other man away from the sitting room and towards Sherlock's bedroom.

"I've been resting for the past three days," The detective complained half-heartedly but he allowed himself to be pulled in the direction of his room. He didn't want to sleep, didn't want to be in silence. He wanted...

He didn't know what he wanted.

"Who's the doctor here?"

They walked down the hall together, the way John's arm twisted around his waist sending a now much-familiar shiver across his flesh.

"Where's your bloody light-switch?" John asked after fumbling for a few seconds around the wall inside Sherlock's door.

"I think I shot it."

"Of course you did."

They stopped inside the door, standing in the shadows. Silence fell over the two, words not being sufficient to say everything that hung in the air above them. And acknowledging these things would, both knew, forever change everything. Change that, in this case, would be inevitable, unavoidable and above all irreversible.

The silence grew, stretching out between them until it was as thin as spun glass, and anything they said would shatter it, leaving them with something that they could effortlessly slash their fingers on.

Neither knew which one of them moved first. But, quite suddenly, there was no more gap between them as their lips pressed urgently together and the same electricity that had fizzed into being the first time they'd kissed also made itself known the second.

Sherlock's body tingled, his limbs weakened, and his chest swelled with emotion. He was pushed against the doorframe, and he felt something snap on - or maybe off - in his brain. He stumbled backwards into his room, pulling John with him, one hand working through the other man's hair, the other looped around John's waist. Jackets and jumpers were easily pushed from shoulders and pulled over heads and onto the floor, neither one breaking contact for less than a second.

Sherlock forced his eyes closed, focusing on just the sensations of John's hair tickling his hand where he'd crept up to hold John's neck, John's hand grasping at the small of his back, pulling him closer. He tried to memorise everything, because any second now John was going to have to realise what a stupid idea this was and stop it now.

But for the moment, all that really seemed to matter was figuring out how to gasp in desperately needed lungfuls of air but not to break their kiss long enough to feel like it had ended.

He felt himself being pushed backwards and complied happily, his calves hitting the edge of the bed and he fell backwards onto the mattress, staring up at John through half-hooded eyes as he pulled him down with him, John's knees on either side of him. His hands were pushed above his head as John leant down and caught him in another bruising, hungry, fingers-in-hair, who-the-hell-needs-oxygen-anyway kiss.

Just as he was about to lose himself in John, John broke the kiss, his hands having moved to Sherlock's hair at some point which made it easier to do so. He didn't pull his head back, but kept his face above Sherlock's, eyes so close that Sherlock could see nothing but blue.

"We really do need to talk," John said, his breath ghosting across Sherlock's lips.

"Do we?" Sherlock askeed as he attempted to move forward, chasing John's lips once again. Because both of them knew, they _had to_, what the other now meant to them and what all of this was. Sherlock knew, and he knew John knew.

But, then again, his life revolved around finding the answers. And, while John was now pressed tightly against him and he didn't particularly care what the damn question had been in the first place, he knew that come morning he'd be searching for the same answers that John was looking for now.

John allowed him to capture his mouth once more, but it was only for a few seconds before Sherlock knew he should pull away. He did so, and found John just looking at him, his gaze saying a thousand things he couldn't give voice to and a thousand things again. And he knew that John knew, but if this was something that John wanted or needed then Sherlock could allow him to do so. So Sherlock nodded once, and they moved away.

Quivering still with the effects of their kiss, Sherlock stared at the other man, strands of his now dishevelled hair falling into his dark eyes. He propped himself up against the headboard, John crawling up to sit beside him. They pressed together, not breaking contact for even a second. For a few moments, neither said anything, each collecting their thoughts.

"The first time that you kissed me," John started hesitantly, the first to break the silence. "Why?"

It was as if Sherlock couldn't move, couldn't even think, couldn't do anything to explain himself. Why'd he kissed him? Bloody hell, he _knew _why he kissed him.

Sherlock scrubbed his hands furiously through his mop of inky hair, making him look like he'd stuck his fingers in the nearest plug socket. As though electricity were truly coursing through his veins, he looked back to John with smouldering eyes that seemed capable of setting the entire street alight with their fervour.

"I thought I was about to die," Sherlock, for the first time, looked nervous. He wasn't usually on the end of a stare as intense as the one John was giving him right now. "And dying without letting you know...would have been my biggest regret," He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. "...John, I'm not good at this kind of thing. I'm not good with emotions, or _people_. I don't know how to explain...how to say..." His eyes peered desperately into John's.

"I know the feeling," John remarked quietly.

"I've never felt like this…this is all new to me," He continued, looking like he was talking more to the bedcovers than the man by his side. "I buried away all my feelings. But you have this _annoying _ability to bring them to the surface,"

Rolling his eyes in amusement at the word choice, John focused on the endearingly anxious expression on the detective's face. "Sorry," They exchanged a small smile.

"I want…I want…" Sherlock trailed off, the words he'd been grasping for gone.

"What do you want?"

Sherlock looked away and then looked back. "I don't _know_ what I want!" He sighed heavily. "That's a lie...I...I..." He scrubbed his hands furiously through his hair.

"You...what?" John asked, emotion evident in his eyes. "Sherlock..." That couldn't be his name. That sounded far too nice to be his name. "Tell me."

"You. I want you, John," The words were rushed, running over themselves as they fell from his mouth. He felt the flood of embarrassment swell up inside his chest, and fought desperately to push it down. He wasn't embarrassed by his feelings for John, he could never be, but until a few weeks ago he'd been comfortably asexual, a self-proclaimed sociopath, and a publically renowned 'unfeeling son-of-a-bitch'. Saying the words aloud wasn't anything he'd ever expected from himself.

"Thank God," John murmured, clasping Sherlock's pale face in his hands and catching his lips with his own, kissing him furiously. Sherlock felt himself being manoeuvred backwards, their lips locking and unlocking, and whatever uncertainties and self-doubts that had wormed their way into his mind evaporated. His fingers trailed from the nape of John's neck to dip of his shirt collar, summoning a shiver from the man, his lips following the path seconds afterwards. He felt John's breath catch in his throat, and smiled against him.

"Sherlock…_Sherlo-oh! _No, Sherlock, wait!" Disgruntled, Sherlock moved an inch or so away and looked John in the eye, waiting for John to explain.

John's eyes met his squarely, unflinching and unblinking, and Sherlock felt choked by the desire, the emotion in his eyes. There, in the depths of the blue, it was as though silent fireworks were exploding. Then he breathed a laugh, his voice trembling slightly. "Why are things with you never simple?" He whispered, lips wet and glistening. "In all honesty, I never expected this to happen."

"And I did?" Sherlock exhaled, raising an eyebrow with a commendable amount of level-headedness. John just gave him a look, and he closed his mouth again.

"Actually, you probably deduced it."

Sherlock shook his head firmly. "Not in the slightest."

John frowned. "But you must've figured it out before I did. Looking back…everything was obvious."

This wasn't fair. Sherlock couldn't hold a conversation with the man when John's eyes were dilated so widely that he could see his own flushed reflection, when his lips were swollen so distractingly and when John kept licking them. How on earth did John expect him to concentrate when he was doing such things?

Wait a second…? Obvious? What was John talking about?

The two conflicting desires weren't difficult to reconcile. "Obvious?" He asked, brushing his lips once again to the line of John's jaw.

"_Sherlock_…" John, though he would never admit it, whimpered his name before clearing his throat. "Sherlock, let me talk."

"You want me to stop?" He challenged, smirking as John's hand tightened on his neck. He didn't know _how _he knew what to do, but apparently he was doing something right as his tongue trailed the shell of John's ear.

"Nyurgh."

"I don't think that qualifies as an answer."

"You are _impossible."_

"True."

John stuttered a laugh, before he pressed his palm to Sherlock's chest and pried him away. "Sherlock…"

"Fine. Talk."

John licked his lips as he made to talk. However while that was a brilliant plan, it was only a brilliant plan _in theory._ Because when he looked at Sherlock, not even daring to breath, in Sherlock's eyes there was a subtle glint, a flickering fire of stormy ocean and electricity. And, damn the man, that pretty much put a bullet in that plan.

"Oh, screw it," He finally breathed, using the hand that was still on Sherlock's chest to push the man down onto the mattress. Sherlock looked up at him with wide surprised eyes. Surprised, but pleased. "We can talk in the morning."

"Glad you see it my way."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

As it turned out, John was pretty effective at shutting Sherlock up.


	23. Epilogue

Author's Note: Well, this is it. The end of Anything But Elementary. This epilogue went through so many rewrites, because I was _never_ happy with it. And, in all honesty, I'm still not completely. But I think that that may just be because I'm sad that it's over. So, from the most sincerest bottom of my heart, thankyou to every brilliant and amazing person who read, favourited, alerted, or reviewed this story. Thankyou

Epilogue

Nothing could describe the terror that chilled its way through John's veins and turned them to ice when he awoke the next morning to find the other half of the bed empty and freezing cold. It was as though the world had slowed down and sped up all at the same time. Thoughts, theories and _Oh, God, No_'s spiralled through his head as he sat bolt upright and looked frantically about himself, trying not to panic as all his previous insecurities seemed to come flooding back in a crash, ten times louder than before.

But, as the world caught up once again, faint clanging and banging sounds began to creep into the edges of his awareness. Relief eclipsed his as the familiar sound of Sherlock pottering around allowed his breathing to slow back to normal level and his pulse to stop hammering in his ears.

Berating himself, he slid out of the bed and, pulling on his abandoned jeans, wandered out of the room. His feet were like ice on the floor. However, instead of heading for the main living area of 221b – where he could now perfectly hear the sounds of Sherlock muttering to himself and science beakers jangling – as he usually did, he entered the bathroom, locked the door and turned the shower on.

It was just giving himself time to think, he told himself as he scrubbed excess amounts of shampoo into his hair. Just giving himself time to think and _definitely not_ putting off speaking to Sherlock.

That was a lie…well, it was and it wasn't. It wasn't that John was _avoiding_ him per se. it was more that now, in the light of day, all the things he'd wanted to say to Sherlock, all the things he'd felt he'd been unable to hold back, just seemed to be trapped at the back of his throat.

Last night, it had felt as though nothing else had existed and that nothing could stop what he wanted to say from tumbling off his tongue. When he had been so sure, so convinced, of the validity of Sherlock's admission because everything had felt right.

And now, clichéd, as it was, John was just so goddamn terrified that he had just made the whole thing up.

As he stepped out of the shower, he tried to concentrate on the things that assured him that he had not in fact simply dreamt the whole thing; he'd woken up in Sherlock's bed for a start. And there was no way in Hell that he had a good enough imagination to come up with the feeling of Sherlock's lips against his, the sensation of Sherlock pulled tight up against him, or the gut-churningly, smouldering look in Sherlock's eyes. No. Way.

There were just some things that were too indescribable to make up.

He dressed in silence. As he listened, he thought he could hear footsteps repeated over and over. Was…was Sherlock _pacing_? The thought made him smile quietly to himself – at least he wasn't the only one with 'nerves' (Not that either would ever admit that, he knew)

Finally, after fiddling with his collar for fifteen seconds too long, he grew impatient with himself and headed out of the room. As he did so, his thoughts argued with themselves in both confusing and annoying circles.

It was only when he rounded the corner of the doorway that his thoughts silenced themselves with a sudden deafening hush. Sherlock was standing in the window, his back to him and his fingers tapping on the glass pane as he watched the cars pass by.

Sherlock turned as he leant against the doorframe. John knew that he'd probably been tracking his progress as he'd moved about the flat. A quiet moment passed between them, eyes locked onto each other. Sherlock licked his lips, ducking his head in such a cautious almost _shy_ way that John didn't even recognise the action on the man.

Then he smiled at him, something positively glinting in his blue eyes, and whatever awkwardness that John had cooked up dissipated with the single expression. He could feel Sherlock analysing him, an involuntary response from the man it seemed, and just raised an eyebrow at him. Sherlock shrugged, plainly unrepentant, before tilting his head in a frown.

"Something wrong?" He asked, moving away from the window and across the room to sprawl himself in his usual position on the leather sofa. As he did so, John caught the minuscule contortion of pain that crossed the consulting detective's face as he hit the furniture too hard and jostled his tender shoulder.

The doctor in him started forward in concern, ordering Sherlock to sit up. Sherlock rolled his eyes but complied, shrugging off his jacket and moving his slender fingers to the buttons on his shirt.

John couldn't stop the wave of nausea that rolled in his stomach as he undid the numerous bandages and saw the mess of scars that was Sherlock's right shoulder. Not for any aesthetic reasons. But for that Moriarty had managed to mark Sherlock in a way that had only been an option because of John's own wound. As Sherlock looked back at him, he averted his eyes in an attempt to hide the responsibility he felt.

"You feel guilty," Sherlock noted as John pulled his medical bag from under the sofa, his voice odd. "You shouldn't,"

"Can't hide anything from you, can I?" John muttered, pulling out fresh bandages.

"Of course not," Sherlock's arrogance was somewhat marred while his deep voice was tinged with an edge of concern. John began binding Sherlock's shoulder, biting his bottom lip as he did so. "John…?" Sherlock prodded when it became apparent that he wasn't about to say anything.

"He shot you, Sherlock," John bit out, tying the knot on the bandage with a touch more violence than he'd originally intended. "In the shoulder,"

"And that's his fault, not yours. Don't be stupid" Although the words were curt, loaded with all the signals of _Don't be an idiot_ that Sherlock could easily give off, Sherlock shot John a loaded look with such honest sincerity in his blue eyes that John felt speechless. He twisted the dirty dressings between his hands, breaking Sherlock's gaze and making for the kitchen to bin them. He only made it about a step before Sherlock's hand on his arm stopped him.

"It's not being stupid," John argued in response to the questioning look in Sherlock's gaze. "If I'd gotten there quicker, or-"

"You were tied up, John," Sherlock unfolded himself from the sofa, stopping just an inch or so away from John. Much closer than John'd expected him to. "Enlighten me as to how you were supposed to get there any quicker than you did,"

John breathed a sigh out through his nose. "Point taken,"

Sherlock leant his forehead against John's, the smallest of smiles on his face. "Good," Their lips brushed together in an all too brief kiss. John felt his eyebrows rise without his consent, shocked by the forwardness. But then again, he reasoned, Sherlock definitely wasn't a man who did things by halves.

"Now; talk," Sherlock breathed against him, his gravelly voice much more intense than only seconds before as his hands slid to John's waist.

"Oh, now you're letting me talk?" John chuckled. Sherlock just rolled his eyes, stepping back to fix him with a look. A look that just said _Stop stalling...No jokes…Not now…Please_.

A splash of guilt made itself known in his thoughts, rippling outwards until it stained everything. Sherlock had already admitted everything, confessed, played his hand…And John was just evading it. Feeling ashamed, he nodded, half to Sherlock and half to himself.

He looked at Sherlock for a few seconds, trying to decide what to say next. He didn't know what to say. How do you explain something that you don't fully understand yourself, something that seems entirely incomprehensible and yet brilliant at the same time? And how do you explain it to the man who had, apparently until last night, might as well have been on a separate planet to the concept of emotions?

But as Sherlock looked at him, looked at him in that way only Sherlock had that made him as if every part of him was peeled away, he could see the same look in his eyes from last night. And everything that had bothered him was…gone.

Because this was Sherlock.

_Sherlock._

"I don't know what this is, Sherlock," John felt Sherlock's hands tighten momentarily on his waist and moved his own hands to rest on top. He bit his lip as their eyes met, and then he just couldn't stop the words. "I don't know. And even when I _do_ know, I doubt I'll even be able to put it into words because there's too much of it. And I've never felt _anything_ even remotely like it before…but I think, _I know_, that this is a great thing," The flow of words, rushed and emotive, came to a stop like a wind-up toy that had run out of steam.

Then Sherlock was leaning towards him again, and John was closing his eyes, and everything that mattered existed in just the fierce pressure of Sherlock's lips against his and the desperate twisting of John's hands in Sherlock's jacket. Sherlock's hand found its way to the back of John's neck, and they swayed ever-so-slightly from the force of Sherlock's kiss. John felt like he would have been knocked backwards if they weren't holding onto each other so tight.

After a long moment, Sherlock pulled back, but this time, he paused before breaking contact, letting his lips linger against John's for just a few more seconds. John opened his eyes – when had he closed them? – and saw Sherlock stare at him with such pure elation that it was almost childlike in its clarity. Their foreheads rested together again, neither willing to move even another inch away.

"Your pupils have dilated," Sherlock noted after a few seconds, although the forced nonchalant tone of his voice was somewhat ruined by the fact that he was breathing rather heavily. "That's…interesting,"

"Shut up, Sherlock,"

Sherlock laughed weakly, looking as though the relief in his eyes had weakened him so much that he could be pushed over with a single shove. "So, what do we do now, then?" He asked, looking slightly nervous.

John inhaled deeply. "We do what we always do. We argue, we laugh, you steal my laptop and I take it back, you hide body parts around the place and I yell at you for it, we watch crap telly, and I make us mugs of tea," He smiled. "We forget to pay the rent."

Sherlock grinned with him, before a frown pulled the corners of his mouth downwards. "John, I don't think I'll be very good at…_this_. At being with someone. At not…scaring someone off or-"

John cut him off quickly before he could start babbling. "If you were going to scare me off, don't you think you'd have done it already?"

"True," Sherlock acknowledged, a small smile knocking the frown away marginally.

John smirked. "I mean, with the heads in the fridge…"

"_Yes, John,_"

"…And your complete refusal to buy food…"

"I've got it, Joh-"

"…And the violin in the middle of the night,"

"_Well,_" It was amazing. Amazing how, with one word spoken just an octave lower in Sherlock's gravelly and immorally seductive voice, Sherlock could immediately turn the tables of a conversation. "I suppose I'll have to find _something else_ to do in the middle of the night, won't I?"

John could feel the tips of his ears tinting red as his cheeks spilled with warmth. But he wasn't blushing. No, he never _blushed_. No way.

Sherlock grinned, entirely too pleased with himself, and licked his lips.

"While you make a certainly…_intriguing_ suggestion," John spoke, forcing his voice to remain calm despite the smirk playing sinfully about on Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's grin increased at his words. "It's currently nine in the morning,"

"Your point?"

* * *

It was almost a month until Lestrade called again with another case, having said that he didn't want Sherlock back working until he was properly healed, it was a close call, and he needs to be at his best. It was almost driving him out of his mind. He'd spent most of the time amongst his experiments, reading, or avoiding crappy daytime TV. Well, that and…well,…John.

He hadn't known what to expect, least of all from himself, but he was certain that what was happening wasn't it. Maybe he'd expected everything to be awkward, ungainly as a fawn in spring, punctuated only when they couldn't keep their hands off of each other. But it wasn't. It was nice. Easy, even. After the first day or so - when every second was filled with eager hands slid under clothes and hungry kisses - it was almost the same as before; easy silences, amusing conversation, stares that lasted for far too long, and mugs and mugs of tea…and also the times when they couldn't keep their hands off each other. But that was an addition that Sherlock couldn't be more pleased about.

He'd never thought that he'd even _want_ to be the sort of person to spontaneously wrap an arm around someone's waist and press a kiss to the crook of their neck. Nor the type of person who was content to spend time with their feet in someone's lap, just alternating between watching his laptop and watching them. But, it turned out that apparently, with John, he was.

However, John had his job (Which he surprisingly hadn't been fired from) and so couldn't always be there to offer a break in the monotony. So he was entirely glad when his phone, silent for over two weeks, beeped loudly at three in the morning.

His eyes flickered open at the noise, zoning in on the device. He extended a long arm, wincing as the movement jolted the wound in his shoulder, and drank in the message telling him the location of a crime and that he was needed. _Finally_. He pushed the covers off, the blurriness of sleep falling away as he unfolded himself from the bed and began pulling on clothes. Excitement started to bubble in his veins again - it'd been too long.

"Sherlock?" A groggy sleep-muffled voice caught him as he was buttoning up his shirt. "What are you doing?" The lump of covers that was John shuffled, until the tousled head of the ex-army-medic poked out from under the duvets.

Smirking, he pulled on his jacket before jumping onto their bed with all of the exuberance that a case could bring him. (_Their Bed._ He sometimes marvelled at how quickly the boundaries between _mine_ and _ours_ had shifted and bled away) John blinked once or twice in shock but, as always, simply took it in stride as Sherlock's legs locked him in place around his hips.

"There's a case," He couldn't escape the thrill that the simple words brought him.

John moved his eyes to the clock on the wall. "It's three in the morning,"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's a murder," He grinned, pressing his forehead to John's.

"It's still three in the morning,"

"It's a _good_ murder,"

"Is there such a thing?"

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow. "It might be _dangerous,_" He breathed the final word onto John's lips, brushing their mouths together the barest amount in a way that he'd discovered made John's eyes dilate in that interesting way once again.

John groaned in defeat. "Is it ever not?"

As he spoke, both hesitated. The pause was so brief that any onlooker would have slipped by it without notice, but it was loaded with texts from pink phones, bullet wounds in shoulders, fake John Watsons, and messages written in blood. In that pause the ghost of Moriarty lingered.

Acting without thinking, Sherlock traced a finger down the side of John's face. John caught his hand, interlacing their fingers together.

"Come on," Sherlock finally spoke, though the words were scrabbled together ever-so slightly. "Murder. Body. Police are stumped, as always. And it's _time to go_,"

Instead of making to move, John caught his high cheekbones between his palms and kissed him. The kiss carried its own subtext, abundantly clear. Sherlock fumbled for a second, his charm curiously absent, before John pulled back.

"Let's go,"

* * *

Sherlock supposed that a less 'not-good' sensation for him to be feeling was meant to be something along the lines of trepidation, or anxiety. And yet excitement was bubbling up and down his spine. This was the first crime-scene that Lestrade had '_allowed_' him to have at. (He had a sneaking suspicion that Mycroft had pulled some strings at the top of Scotland Yard so that he could have his 'convalescence') As much as he had been…_distracted_…for the last few weeks, he really needed the work.

There was also a part of him, the part of him that was insanely shallow, was intensely curious about what the…_protocol_ was going to be for this. In 221b they were pretty much the same as usual. Well, aside from the obvious new additions that came from being together. (They'd already managed to give themselves away to Mrs Hudson when she'd just walked in once). But this was The Work. This was the place where he was Sherlock Holmes, World's Only Consulting Detective and John, _his_ John, was Doctor John Watson, his colleague. He didn't know what to do. He'd never had any experience with such a thing. So he was more than happy for John to take the lead on how to act.

He wasn't expecting anything, he wasn't that selfish or unprofessional (_Well,_ maybe he was), but he was curious…_simply curious._

John caught his eye as they ducked under the _Do Not Cross_ Police Tape in front of the house Lestrade had directed to them, and Sherlock grinned widely at him in a strange mix of barely restrained excitement and his response to John's own quiet smile. The entire atmosphere was intoxicating, just the anticipation of the case was enough to set his nerves buzzing.

"Look at you," John commented lightly, looking determinedly ahead but sneaking an amused glance at him from the corner of his eyes.

He frowned. "What?"

"Grinning like a child at Christmas," John raised an eyebrow. "With a dead body under the tree,"

"Stop exaggerating, John," He rolled his eyes. He knew that, in reality, he probably looked entirely too delighted to be appropriate for a crime-scene, but regardless he wasn't going to give John the satisfaction of agreeing with him.

John just nudged a pointed elbow into his side, and they grinned stupidly at each other for a second or so. Sherlock had never felt so idiotic, to be pointlessly grinning at someone just because they made him smile, but he couldn't _quite_ bring himself to care.

Somewhere, his ears recognised the very distinct _clack, clack_ of sensible and ugly shoes approaching them, and he carefully composed his expression into a calm mask as Sally Donovan approached them with a fairly confrontational expression on her face. Then again, she always looked confrontational when it came to him.

"You're back then?" She asked, placing her hand on her hip and shifting her weight to one side in a way that suggested she was planning on staying there a while. Briefly, he wondered whether it'd be easier or not to simply ignore her and walk around, but decided it would be more trouble than the satisfaction it would bring was worth.

"Clearly, Sally," He only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes, but ensured that his voice was polite enough to irritate her. He supposed that she was under the impression that they were even once again; he'd saved her, but he'd also been the reason for her capture.

"And you, too?" She directed the next question to John, who looked both confused and as though he'd been expecting it. "You've not realised that he's going to get you killed,"

John bristled beside him, but remained silent. Instead, Sherlock intervened. "Unless you've got anything productive to say, Sally-"

She cut him off. "You do realise that, right? I mean, you almost died a month ago-"

"So did he. So did _you_," John broke in, face set in an expression of pure determination that made Sherlock's chest clench. "And that was Moriarty's fault, not Sherlock's,"

Donovan glared at him, looking as though John'd done her a personal injustice by bringing up her ordeal. (And, knowing John, he was probably already feeling guilty for it by now.) Then, her icy gaze moved to Sherlock's face. "You've entirely brain-washed him, haven't you?"

He opened his mouth to respond with something, but again John leapt in. "No, he has _not_ 'brain-washed' me. And, Sally, no-one ever appointed you to interfere in my life. _I barely know you_. But I do know Sherlock, and he's a much better man than you give him credit for,"

Donovan floundered for a second or so, but John had clearly had enough of her. "Goodbye, Donovan," Without seeming to think about it, his hand slipped into Sherlock's and he pulled him away. Sherlock vaguely heard Donovan mutter furiously behind them about _ungrateful_ and _idiot_ and then an incredulous _holding hands_, but was too shell-shocked to even comprehend it as he focused on John's hand clasped tightly around his and the reality of what John had just done.

"Sorry," John mumbled after a few seconds of fast-paced walking and then he stopped just inside the gate to the front-garden of the house. "I shouldn't…I shouldn't," He gestured vaguely with their still entangled hands, and sighed. He attempted to withdraw his hand from Sherlock's. However, it was only an attempt, because Sherlock adamantly held on. John gave him a semi-curious look, and Sherlock simply raised their entwined hands to his mouth and pressed a light kiss to the back of John's hand.

He didn't need to say the word _thankyou_ for John to understand entirely what he meant, but he did so anyway, the word barely loud enough for Sherlock's own ears to hear. But John apparently heard because he smiled softly, seeming to understand all the meanings Sherlock had loaded behind the single word.

"C'mon," John gestured with his head. "Lestrade'll be waiting,"

Sherlock grinned and headed up the garden path, their hands falling apart but John following close behind him.

"Ah, Lestrade," He greeted the detective inspector as he spotted him just inside the door, more than content to be polite when he was this enthusiastic to be working again. "You called,"

The detective inspector stepped out onto the front step and seemed to appraise them both as they joined him, silently checking their well-being. Sherlock again resisted the urge to roll his eyes – he was in perfect health now – but gave an impatient sigh. If Lestrade understood what it meant, he didn't acknowledge it, because he was then asking after their health. How perfectly dull!

"Fine," John was replying however, seemingly enjoying talking to Lestrade. "I've been back at the surgery for a few weeks, and Sherlock's been all but going mad without any cases,"

Sherlock _did_ in fact roll his eyes at that. Why did they continually speak about him as though he wasn't there?

"I don't envy you trying to entertain him for a month,"

And then there was an almost _wicked_ smirk on John's lips, one that Sherlock had been treated to many times over the last month. "I've managed,"

Before the prickle of heat on Sherlock's cheeks could grow into a full-grown flush, and before Lestrade even had a chance to understand and comment, Sherlock cut in with a pointed "As lovely a chat as this is, I thought you'd called me here for a murder?"

Smart man that he was, Lestrade took the hint. Sherlock knew there'd been a reason he'd liked the man. He refocused his mind, decidedly away from John and _his smirks_, and towards the intoxicating high that the case would undoubtedly bring him. _God, he'd missed this!_

"Young female. 20 years old," Lestrade began to reel off. "I.D around the house identifies her as an Olivia Maitland. Roommate found her when she came home an hour ago. Killed by an attack to the back of the head. Forensics estimate Time of Death to be roughly four hours ago. And there are scuff marks leading from the door to where the body found, sitting up on her sofa. No murder weapon found as of yet,"

_Sitting up? Interesting. Killer moved her._

_Back of the head. She turned her back on the killer after she answered the door. She'd trusted her murderer._

_No murder weapon. Killer had brought their own. This was a planned murder._

"I take it that there's no CCTV anywhere around here?" He asked, scanning for cameras even as he did so.

"Would I have called you in if there was?"

There were several disparaging remarks that Sherlock could make from that, but the Work was more important, so he simply ignored them and gestured to the front door. "Shall we?"

Lestrade nodded, signalling for him and John to go first. Grinning, he grabbed John by the top of arm and dragged him in the direction of the front door. John put up the expected half-hearted fight, but soon enough just allowed himself to be pulled along. Good boy.

As they passed through the doorway, he scanned it quickly. Chain on door still intact – she'd definitely trusted them. No footprints – they hadn't walked in anything, so more than likely the killer drove. As Lestrade said, scuff-marks – she'd been killed here and dragged to the sitting room. Anything else…? No mess – the killer was calm, confident. Probably not his first kill.

He moved on, brushing past CSI's in their blue suits until he arrived at the living room. He released John as they entered, moving away and towards the body, pulling off his gloves and sliding on the rubbery white ones he so disliked.

_Facts; What are they?_

Young woman.

Aged 20.

Brown hair, dyed blonde.

Dressed in clothes, black skirt and red top, not pyjamas.

Text books lain neatly across coffee table.

Selection of pens laid out on coffee table.

Mug of liquid, probably previously warm, next to books.

Pair of slippers half under the sofa.

_Hmmm…_

Stepping forward, he began examining her, tilting his head to one side without even realising the action. Silence fell as he moved around the room, examining everything from the strands of the girl's hair to the rows of photographs on her walls.

Oh! Oh, very interesting.

"She didn't dye her hair," He finally spoke, the sound cutting the silence in half.

"What?" Lestrade asked, looking anything but impressed. Sherlock rolled his eyes – so impatient.

"She didn't dye her hair," He repeated, more firmly. _God_, it felt good to be back doing this again. And, from the smothered look of excitement in John's eyes, he wasn't the only one who thought so. His eyes focused hungrily for a few seconds on the expression on John's face, before he berated himself for being do easily distracted. He snapped back to the case.

"Look at her," He gestured to the body. "Look around her. Look how neat she is; Pens lined up, mug on a mat, text books sorted by subject and alphabet. This girl was almost bordering on obsessive. But look at her hair. The dye is uneven, not at all in line with the rest of the room. Ergo, someone dyed it for her. That dye is far too fresh, still stinks to the high heavens; the killer dyed her hair,"

"He dyed her hair?" John asked as Lestrade just frowned.

Sherlock simply nodded before returning to his analysis. "He also dressed her. Look at her clothes. It's the middle of the night, why would she be wearing clothes? She was wearing pyjamas before she answered the door, her slippers are still here. The killer took them off her and re-dressed her. But those aren't her clothes. Short black skirt and a bright red top? This girl didn't wear those kinds of clothes, look at the pictures of her on the wall. Killer brought the clothes with them. What does that say?"

The question had been spoken to himself, but John answered anyway. "Pretending she's someone else,"

"Of course," He muttered to himself, sparing John a quick impressed grin before returning his attention to Olivia Maitland. "So he's working his way up to killing her,"

"Who is this 'her'?" Lestrade asked, sounding as impatient as ever. Some things never changed. "Matter of fact, who's he?"

"Someone she knew. Otherwise she wouldn't have turned her back on him. Someone she was very close to. Check her friends, see if anyone matches the description of this girl after she'd been dressed up. He probably won't go for her first, but he'll go for someone else he knows. Question is who," Oh, excellent - a Serial Killer; nothing more intriguing. "Killer more than likely already has a criminal record, this is much too tidy for a first-time, so check for that, too," They probably wouldn't do that until after the forensics report came in; he'd go and take a look himself…no need to tell Lestrade that, though.

Lestrade nodded, turning away as he began to mutter into his two-way radio, instructing his team to begin collecting the data that Sherlock needed. Around them, sound started up again as everyone began to get on with their jobs once more.

He turned back to John, only to find the other man already looking at him with a mixture of fondness and amusement. "Having fun?"

Sherlock smirked. "Of course,"

"Normal people don't have fun at crime-scenes," John smiled back, a slight teasing edge to his voice. "Much less, murder scenes,"

Rather than drawing himself up to his full, and rather impressive, height, Sherlock stepped closer to John. "And I take it, you're _not_ having fun?" He asked pointedly, already knowing the answer.

"Not the point,"

"_How convenient_," He muttered quietly, a smirk quirking his lips. Later, he'd use the excuse that he was unable to stop himself. But, in truth, he knew exactly what he was doing as he pressed a swift kiss to John's lips. John responded for a second, but then pulled back to raise pointed eyebrows at him, half amused, half confused.

"That's my 'apology'," He explained. Then, realising that elaboration was required, he continued. "I'm sending you Scotland Yard. I need her friends' records. If you can't get them there, I need you to text me so I can get them myself,"

John narrowed his eyes. "You need a better apology than that,"

He raised an eyebrow. "Promise?"

Someone choked near them, probably Lestrade, and he spared the D.I a look. Lestrade looked entirely shell-shocked, and Sherlock could all but hear the questions that were doubtlessly building up behind his wide-eyes and eyebrows-raised expression, but he ignored them as John simply rolled his eyes, the faintest of pink tinges on his neck. "Where are you going, then?"

"Hospital. I need to speak with her roommate. She's been taken in for shock,"

"Okay. Any idea how long you'll be?"

"As long as it takes," He answered somewhat dismissively, before allowing the full extent of his excitement to shine through as he smirked at John. He felt like electricity was bubbling through his veins, tingling his fingertips and building up pressure in his chest. He thought he saw John's pupils dilate once again, but the other man blinked before he could fully check. Damn.

_Focus_, he chastised himself, before the exhilaration took ahold once again. The game was on!

"There're always criminals out there, John, and they get more interesting by the day," He grinned widely, barely able to contain his glee.

John's answering smile was more subdued. "They won't be as interesting as Moriarty, though, will they?" He spoke as if he feared that Sherlock was going to agree with him, and the odd sound in his voice was something that Sherlock _never_ wanted to hear again.

"Well, John," So, Sherlock grinned. Grinned in that cat-like way of his, the grin that he knew always made John struggle to snatch breath. "That'd be boring, now wouldn't it?"


End file.
